Original Vampire Brides: Road Trip
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: I've had a request. Nonetheless, here is another chapter. Main summary deleted as it doesn't really matter. COMPLETE!
1. In the Beginning

_At long last, ladies and gents, I give you "OVB: Road Trip!"_

_My ambitions for this fic:_

_1: to make people laugh till their sides hurt_

_2: to write a story that (not to go all valley-girl on you, but—) totally and completely rocks havers_

_3: to have David Wenham wandering through it periodically with (trumpet fanfare!) his shirt off._

_4: to achieve at least a hundred reviews from you, when all is said and done (so review like you've never reviewed before!)_

_5: to have fun._

_Wait a second, have I got my priorities a little mixed?_

_Yes._

_1: to have David Wenham wandering through it periodically with his shirt off_

_The rest are immaterial._

_Anyway, there will probably be more than a few references to my other VH fics in here, just to warn you. This is kind of a sequel to "VH and the Village People" since that was so (inexplicably) popular. And I love random humour, so why not keep doing it? Anyway, please review and let me know how bad it is. I like the second chapter better than the first, so don't give up on it right away._

**Chapter One: In the Beginning**

Once upon a time, the world was young. Life was good, and young Gabriel was in his first existence as an accountant.

Look at him, a seventh-century accountant— not so different from a modern accountant, really, except for the toga. He led a peaceful, harmless life— till one day he fell foul of his most prominent client, a certain Dracul, who wore bright pink togas because he wouldn't develop his well-known gothic sense of style for several hundred more years.

Dracul, a prominent businessman, was a pleasant, handsome man with a bit of a mean streak. He always gave his debtors two or three weeks at least to pay up— and then if they didn't, he killed them, in the most pleasant way possible. He was trying to defraud the government— and goodness knows the government at the time needed all the help it could get— and hadn't been paying all his taxes. Nothing serious, you understand; just petty coins, the odd bottle of olive oil here and there. But Gabriel was an upstanding citizen— and he wouldn't stand up for it.

When he found out, he confronted Dracula about it, which was his first mistake. He surprised Dracul with his consorts Aler, Vero, and Marisa. Dracul didn't take kindly to this, and the two men ended up in a fight.

Now, despite the fact that Gabriel was a skinny, bespectacled accountant, he was no mean fighter. He could duke it out with the best of them— if it weren't for his rather stupidly sticking to the rules of honorable combat. Dracul kicked him illegally, they both ended up on the ground, and that's where the fight really started.

Somehow, a lamp fell over, and all those hoarded bottles of olive oil got spilled.

The result was a noise like wumph!, along with instant death for all involved.

Afterwards, Gabriel and Dracul emerged coughing and ash-covered before the throne at Valhalla, to be sentenced by Zeus himself.

"Oh, Zeus," spake Gabriel, "have mercy on us."

"Oh, Zeus," spake Dracul, shoving Gabriel, "it was this imbecile's fault, not mine."

"Hey, no pushing!"

"I didn't push."

"Yes you did, you did this—" Gabriel demonstrated.

Dracul responded with a harder shove. "Don't push me."

"**Gentlemen**!" said Zeus.

"He started it," said Dracul.

"I did not."

"You did too!" Shove.

"Don't touch me!" Shove.

"This is all your fault!" punch.

"My fault?" Illegal kick.

"Yes your fault!" Bloody nose.

"I wasn't the one consorting with those three girls!" Broken nose.

"Do you seriously think we're here because of a little dalliance?" Kicked kneecap.

"Dracul, your entire life is one long dalliance!" Roundhouse punch.

Behind them, half-hidden in the clouds, Vero, Aler, and Marisa set up a cry. They'd been practicing it— it was specially designed to get their beloved's attention— and it sounded like this:

"AAaa_aaaa_AAAAAAA_aaa_AAAA**aaAAAAAA**!"

"Let go of my hair!"

"You let go first!"

"You're just jealous."

"What could I possibly have to be jealous about?"

Dracul paused. "You're jealous because— because I have three women and Ana keeps leaving you for other men."

"She was _visiting her family_!" howled Gabriel, and the fight started in earnest. Again.

"**ENOUGH!**" thundered Zeus. "**YOU MORTALS ARE SO BLOODY ANNOYING. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH YOU? YOU JUST WON'T _LEARN!_**"

And thus it was that Dracul and Gabriel, not to mention Dracul's companions, were sentenced to circular immortality— no matter what happened, they would keep coming back. A sort of metaphysical merry-go-round, if you will.

History became legend— legend became myth— myth became an aggressive advertising campaign.

Dracul and Gabriel changed names, histories, life stories, memories, realities, and consciences more times than you could count, over the ages. By the time our story begins, the truth was beginning to be ingrained even in Gabriel's faulty memory.

This time, his name is Van Helsing.

Gabriel Van Helsing.

He likes introducing himself like that because it sounds cool.

Two years ago he lost his love Anna Valerious, and now he has an Irish wolfhound named Mack, a sidekick named Carl, and an unrequited crush on an opera star named Hannah. Secretly he suspects that he likes her because her name is spelt the same backwards as forwards. A few months ago he had a close call with a pal of his named Otto.

He looks at himself in the mirror. His face is so familiar, so well-known. Very handsome. Rather impractical, really, to walk around looking this good everyday. Almost a waste, like he should have a normal one for everyday wear and just save this one for special occasions.

Actually, come to think of it, most of the main people in his life were rather good-looking. Anna had been beautiful, as had her brother (who's name Van Helsing couldn't remember, but it was a stupid name so it didn't matter). Dracula was to die for. Carl was one sexy monk. Friar. Whatever, he kept changing his mind.

Even Cardinal Jinette wasn't bad for a small, old, bald, annoyingly Italian guy.

The reason for this was, of course, that Van Helsing's life was a movie; but Van Helsing himself was unaware of that. In fact the only one who really suspected this fact was Carl, and that was just because the Writer had told him so.

At the back of Van Helsing's mind was the ever-present thought, never far from him, that he was doomed to circular immortality. No matter what happened, the would keep coming back.

A sort of metaphysical merry-go-round, if you will.


	2. Ready Steady

A few quick notes: thanks for reading/reviewing you guys rock! Sorry about inserting my silly self in every once in a while, it's a lot easier to do in script format let me tell ya! I named this chapter being unable to come up with anything (anything!) that made sense, and, oh yeah, I really do have a crush on Steve Coogan. (Eye roll) Go figure.

Chapter Two: Ready Steady

Life since reincarnation was good for Vladislaus Dracula. He'd decided a long time ago what name and shape he wanted to take, and so there was no more of that tedious decision- making like there had been in the first few hundred years. His brides, too, had settled down to their neverending youth. And life was, on the whole, much more enjoyable since pink togas were outlawed as a crime against humanity in the middle of the ninth century. He now spent most of his time in black (black trousers, shirt, socks, tasseled loafers, underwear, and voluminous cape— which, on top of looking stylish, really did wonders for his figure) except when he slept during the day, for which purpose he had borrowed plaid flannel pyjamas from Igor.

Poor Igor.

He wasn't coming back.

He shouldn't have tortured the monk.

Bad things happened to those who tortured the monk.

Dracula shivered as he considered this. He'd been plagued with some bad dreams recently, and most of them seemed to involve the monk, armed with a whip and, inexplicably, dressed in that ridiculous jester's outfit he'd worn to the masquerade ball.

Dracula decided he'd rather not think about that.

He'd rather think— about his immortality.

As he'd mentioned to Gabriel several times, endless life was so much easier to enjoy when you pretty much did whatever you wanted and didn't worry about good and evil. Gabriel didn't seem to grasp the point. He kept trying to kill Dracula.

Poor Gabriel. So handsome— so strong— so slow on the uptake.

Still, Dracula couldn't deny that they'd had some good times together. Fights, mostly. There was Russia, there was Persia, there was India, there was Transylvania, there was Pennsylvania (see "Van Helsing and the Village People"). There was even that little incident in Australia. Gabriel hadn't enjoyed that one, though Dracula had found the bloody-minded cheerfulness of the Australians amusing. They had just gotten on Gabriel's nerves.

Briefly, because the Writer's mind was wondering, Dracula wondered how on earth he'd managed to escape the light bomb the monk had set off in his palace.

Oh well. Such was life.

He noticed suddenly that the castle was silent.

Silent as the dead.

Ha ha.

He really had to work on his joke-telling skills. That one probably wouldn't have even cracked Marishka up— and she laughed at everything, even Saturday Night Live.

Speaking of Marishka—

He strode through the castle, calling languidly as he moved, "My brides— my brides— "

He'd learnt, over the years, the exact pitch and tone to use so his voice echoed around the halls like the cry of a ghost.

But no-one answered him and eventually he got fed up with dramatics, stomped his foot and yelled, "Verona! Aleera! Marishka! Where the bleep are you?"

He said "bleep" because he knows the Writer isn't exactly big on profanity.

Then he said, "Bugger!" because he knows the Writer doesn't really count British profanity as real profanity. In fact, she thinks its funny.

The Writer, Dracula reflected, had some serious issues to work out. Putting herself in fanfiction— using the term "rocks havers" even though she's American— and that ridiculous crush on Steve Coogan— of course, she was unusually euphoric at the moment because of having passed her driver's exam.

Bloody Writer, Dracula thought, earning a giggle from the slandered party, and moved on.

Once again, his voice echoed through the halls, lonely— mournful— haunting. Dracula thought, _"I am really really bloody good at this, aren't I?_"

The empty castle yielded up only unliving sounds— echoes, rustles from the bats in the belfry, and the sound of a persistent drip of water from the kitchen sink.

Odd how loud simple sounds like that can seem. The kitchen was at the other end of the castle, and yet the annoying_ drip drip drip poink! _was already jarring on the Count's nerves. He'd sent a Wheedle down to fetch the plumber, then had to send another down to a different plumber, giving the second one careful instructions not to pull the plumber's head off and carry it back in its jaws.

He strode on, trying to ignore the sounds. He ended up on the balcony overlooking the tiny, ravaged village. There he stood, allowing the wind to blow his hair back dramatically, and thinking about his missing brides.

_They weren't what they are now to begin with._

_That sounded needlessly complicated, didn't it? I'll start again._

_I made them what they are— beautiful— _

The sound of the drip interrupted his thoughts._ Plink!_

—_deadly— _

_Plink!_

—_everlasting— _

_Plink!_

—_I've given them everything they could ask for—except children, of course, but honestly, who in their right mind would ask for children?_

_Plink!_

—_And where are they now? Where could they be?_

A thought struck him and he stared in horror at the dismal landscape below him.

—_They talked of changing centuries, of pursuing a record deal— I laughed at them and told them not to be imbeciles— but suppose they did it anyway?_

_Suppose they went to the future?_

_No, no. Impossible. They couldn't have done that._

_But then where are they?_

_Where?_

_**Plink!**_

_Where?_

_**Plink!**_

Unable to stand it any longer, Dracula whirled in a flurry of cloak and howled back into the castle, "Where's the bleeding _plumber!?_"

He'd need help to retrieve his brides from wherever it was they'd gone. But first he had more pressing matters to attend to.

His business, thought Dracula grimly, arming himself with a wrench, was with the sink tonight.


	3. An Unfortunate Series of Rutabagas

Reviewing the reviews: aw, Katter, that's so sweet. You're lying, obviously, but it's a nice lie. :)

AABuddy, here's the more you wanted!

Carnicirthial, I didn't realize how potentially lethal my stuff was. Maybe I should put up some sort of warning—

Nikoru, YES I love that quote! Nearly died laughing the first time I saw it! I love Steve Coogan to bits I don't care if he is a bit grotty sometimes!

RogueCajun, I thought about explaining the Wheedles at the beginning but thought I'd bore everyone out of their minds. However, since you asked for it— I made them up. Decided I didn't much care for the Dwergi, and Dracula needed minions, so I gave him some Wheedles. They're like a cross between the Wargs from LOTR and a homicidal ferret. Not very bright, not very likeable, and extremely dangerous. I may put them in some of my actual novels, they seem to fit in with some of the darker stuff—

Thanks all for the reviews!

Something that amazed me when I found it out, just as a by-the-way sort of thing— Daisy Wenham is only like an inch shorter than Hugh Jackman, and in the movie Carl's a lot shorter than Van Helsing. I assumed that it was camera tricks or something like that. Then I listened to the director's commentary track, and they said, "Look at that, look at David there— look how short he looks. How did he DO that?" Can you believe it? How DID he do that?

Yay Daisy. (Complacent smile) Best actor in the universe.

Funky teeth though.

Chapter Three: An Unfortunate Series of Rutabagas

Carl, who was small and petulant and extremely adorable, was exercising his marvelous brain and attempting a matter-transference beam. He couldn't get anyone to volunteer, and then he couldn't get anyone to sit still long enough for him to try it out on them, volunteer or no— so he'd finally decided to use something that couldn't get away from him, and had nipped down to pilfer something from the root cellar.

Van Helsing came and stood behind him. "Carl—"

Carl jumped. "Ah, Van Helsing. I didn't see you. Probably becaue you were standing behind me. How's tricks?"

"Carl— what are you doing with that poor innocent rutabaga?"

(A/N See "His Life an Open Book" for the rutabaga history.)

"What makes you think its an innocent rutabaga? I've never met an entirely innocent rutabaga in my life. Anyway, I'm only practicing my matter-transference beam exposition. You know, for when I present it to the Cardinal? At the end of the month?"

"Does it work?"

"Must you always answer my question with a question?"

"Must you?"

"Must I what?"

Van Helsing leant on the table, one hand on the MTB's controls. "Aren't you being just a little hypocritical, Carl?"

Carl opened his mouth to reply, but Van Helsing accidentally hit the start button and the machine began whirring.

"Van Helsing, are you stupid? Don't answer that. Didn't you notice the sign on the button?"

"What sign on what button?"

Carl pointed at the button. Sure enough, there was a sign on it that said _Do Not Under Any Circumstances On Pain Of Death Depress This Button Unless Of Course You Are Carl._

"See that?"

"I wasn't _depressing_ it, Carl. I just _pressed_ it. How do you_ depress_ a button anyway?"

Carl stared at Van Helsing for a moment and then shook his head and muttered something.

"What did you say?"

"I said," said Carl, clearly, "D—"

The rutabaga disappeared in a flash of light and sparks.

Van Helsing said, wide-eyed, "Oooh— pretty."

Then the unfortunate rutabaga reappeared a foot away.

Inside out.

Twitching slightly.

"I think its going to need a little more work," said Van Helsing helpfully.

"Blast," said Carl.

"Carl, you're a monk, you're not supposed to swear," said Van Helsing, wincing slightly.

"But— blast isn't a swearword," pointed out Carl, puzzled.

"I know— I know!" said Van Helsing; he looked rather upset. He dragged a shaky hand across his brow. "I've talked to you about it before, Carl— I don't know why, I just— I have this— _compulsion_— to say that— I say it _all the time_— I just can't help myself—"

Carl clapped his dim-witted friend on the back. "Have you seen a psychiatrist?"

"No but I saw a necromancer."

"Well, that's— almost the same thing."

"Anyway—" Van Helsing breathed in deeply and shook himself. "Is this the only result you've gotten?"

"Pretty much. I was using potatoes last week. And remember what we had for dinner—"

Van Helsing thought for a minute. "Turkey. Carl, you turned a potato into a turkey? That's brilliant!"

"No, no, no," said Carl waspishly, waving his hands. "What did we have with the turkey?"

"Cranberry sauce. Carl, you turned a turkey into cranberry sauce?"

"No."

"Yams?"

"No."

"Pumpkin pie."

"No!"

"Hamburgers."

"No!"

"Squirrel souffle."

"NO!"

"Frappachino."

"_Mashed potatoes_!" bellowed Carl, his face turning purple. "We had _mashed bloody potatoes!"_

"Carl you're not supposed to swear—" said Van Helsing automatically, but Carl kicked him in the shin and the rest of the much-over-used quote was lost in a grunt of pain.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"What else are you working on?"

"A few other things—" said Carl vaguely.

From the stairs came a shout of alarm, and Carl and Van Helsing looked up in time to see a huge, dark shadow swoop down towards them.

The shadow resolved itself into a man. At the sight of his face about thirty fangirls in the audience collapsed.

You guessed it.

It's Dracula.


	4. Speech Defect

Chapter Four: Speech Defect

"My friends," began Dracula to the room at large, "I have come here to enlist your help. This is a matter of very serious importance. It is in fact both very important and very serious. As I said. Very. Serious. So. So— _so vould you stop freaking out?"_

He screamed the last bit, and the flurry of activity that his arrival had sparked ceased abruptly. Nothing can scream quite like a vampire. Everyone stood absolutely still and stared at him.

"_Thank_ you." The Count sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair, getting his fingernails tangled and yelping in pain. This ruined the drama he'd so carefully set up, which put him in a bad mood— but a good vampire never gives up on theatrics and so he sighed and ploughed on.

"Van Helsing," he said. "Vhere is Van Helsing, I must speak vith him immediately."

The assembled monks looked at each other nervously and shifted their weight uneasily.

"Vhat's vrong vith you all? Can't you speak?" Dracula glared at one of them, a smallish fattish man with an expression of extreme idiocy. "You there. Talk vith me. Tell me vhat is goink on."

The man dithered rapidly until Dracula swept him up in his grasp, tightening his grip on the man's throat. "_Yes_?"

"Why— why do you speak this way? Can— can you not pronounce your w's?"

Dracula stared at him in disgust, then lowered him to the floor.

"We can— we can help you with that," said the Smallish Fattish Monk. "We uh, we uh, we make it our mission in life to assist those who need help. This includes people being abducted by aliens, maidens in distress, illiterate children, people seeking plastic surgeons, people waiting for the Writer to update "Lost Tales of a Steward's Son" and people with speech defects. So, as you can see, you're right there on the list— so, uh, so, uh— can we help you?"

Dracula stared down at him. "Can you help me?" he repeated scathingly. "Yes, you can help me. You can tell me vhere Van helsing is before I—"

A familiar voice came from behind him. "Drop the monk," it said, "and turn around slowly."

Dracula dropped the monk and began to turn around

"I said slowly!" the voice rang out. Dracula sighed and complied. "Slower than that. Slower, slower— good. That's good. Okay. Keep it up."

By the time Dracula had completed the turn, the owner of the voice had stepped to the other side, so once again he was behind Dracula.

"Okay now, slowly, slowly— slooooooowly—"

"Van Helsing! What are you doing?" hissed another familiar voice, this one prone to breakage and nasality.

"I'm trying to get him dizzy so I can overpower him," Van Helsing hissed back.

"He won't get dizzy, going so slow!"

"He won't?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"People get dizzy from the world going by so fast they can't adjust, not from turning around in circles as slowly as possible."

"Really?"

"Really!"

"Oh— so, alright, what do I do?"

The second man sighed deeply. "Well, Van Helsing, seeing as you've got a crossbow, why don't you try threatening him with that instead of trying to get him sufficiently dizzy?"

"Oh? Yeah. Good idea." Van Helsing's tone was admiring. "Man, Carl, you are just figuring everything out today."

"I know, I know," sighed Carl, "it just the mood the Writer's in. She just watched "Molokai" and now as far as she's concerned I can do no wrong."

"Mole-o-what?"

"Exactly what I said. But she said she'd overstepped her Writer's Avatar Quotient (WAQ) for this chapter and she'd have to stop talking about herself in third person."

"Huh." Van Helsing considered. "I wish I knew what all those big words meant, Carl."

"Someday, my son," said Carl with a sigh.

"Alright, Dracula, turn around slightly more rapidly and behold the crossbow."

Dracula turned around and stared at the tall dark-haired man who was growling at him and holding a crossbow in a manner frequently known as "brandishing."

"See it?"

"I behold the crossbow," said the Count equably. "I also behold the flaw in the friar's plan."

"What?"

"Flaw?" said Carl indignantly. "Never! Bugger your flaw!"

"Carl you're not supposed to—.

"Shut _up_, Van Helsing. What flaw?"

"The flaw," said Dracula gravely, "being that your crossbow is not armed."

Van Helsing stared at him, then stared down at where the bolts of the crossbow should be. They were nowhere to be seen. He looked at Dracula, who was grinning. With a muttered expletive at Carl's expense—

"_Bleeping monk_!"

— Van Helsing took evasive action; he dropped to the ground and rolled, knocking several monks down like a bowling ball amongst unsuspecting pins. Then he stopped, leapt to his feet, dropped again, stood again, leapt forward, back, and to the right, then did a quick step to the left. He feinted forward again before dodging around behind a morbidly obese monk named Phil, panting with his exertions.

This all would have looked fairly cool if things had gone as expected. Unfortunately they didn't. Evasive action was rendered unnecessary by the fact that there was nothing to evade— Dracula didn't attack, and Van Helsing's acrobatic leaping about for no reason looked downright stupid. Several of the monks, whose only entertainment was whatever Carl blew up, tittered, then stifled the noises at a glare from Van Helsing, who emerged from behind Phil rather red in the face.

Dracula smiled benignly and spread his hands wide. "Good Gabriel, I have no vish to commit physical violence upon your person. I vould have done so long ago if it vould have done any good. No, today I am come on a mission of peace and harmony and other sickeningly over- used things. I am in need of your invaluable assistance, dear Gabriel. I have come vith — a little— proposition."

Carl looked from Count Dracula to Van Helsing, wondering if any of the long words had sunk in. Apparently so— Van Helsing was staring fixedly at the vampire with every evidence of deep, involved cogitation.

He lifted a finger and laid it along his lips.

"Why is it," he asked keenly, "that you can't pronounce your w's?"


	5. A Clueless Interruption

Chapter Five: All's Well

**Queen Eleanor was still** looking around the room with concern half-way hidden in her luminous eyes when her younger son came walking jauntily in, looking around at all the spectators, who were in turn looking at him with raised eyebrows. Sebastyen slid neatly through the crowd, stopping only once or twice when he knocked someone over.

Poor clumsy boy, she thought. Sebastyen reached the thrones and took a seat next to his mother, who looked at him with gentle inquiry in her eyes.

"Why is everybody here so early?" he asked in the insipid tone he put on when he was required to sound particularly stupid.

"They aren't, dear. The ball started almost an hour ago." Queen Eleanor didn't mention that people hadn't started to show up until twenty minutes ago. She permitted herself a small sigh. What was it with people these days? They were so....so _lazy_.

Sebastyen turned from his mother to his father and gave him a silly grin and a nod of greeting. Then he turned his glance on the people who were talking to his parents. Then his jaw dropped and he stared.

Queen Eleanor saw his expression and knew exactly what had occurred. She smiled. Sebastyen had seen Christine, of course.

Sebastyen _had_ seen Christine. His mind was a whirl of blankness, and he was conscious only of the pounding of his heart. His pulse was going haywire. His mouth was dry, his lips were cracked, his eyes were wide, and his nostrils flared. For five full seconds he couldn't think of anything. Then he became aware of the word that was throbbing through his brain.....

_Wow....wow....wow....wow....wow...._

He suddenly came back to himself and sat up straight. At that moment, Christine

glanced his way, and he saw in an instant that the effect he had on _her_ was not nearly the same as the effect she had on _him_. She didn't give him a second thought. She would have loved Arch, he thought bitterly, but his mind rejected the implication. What was he going to do? He suddenly thought of a way to make known his feelings and still keep up his character. What would people expect of an idiot suddenly in love, but that he would propose at first sight?

"May I be introduced to the young lady?" he asked his mother loudly, making sure

that the young lady herself would hear. His mother looked somewhat surprised to hear a coherent statement out of her son, but nodded kindly assent and called Eva and her sister over.

"May I present," said Eva again, and Sebastyen looked right through her. All he saw in passing was a small, round person with dark hair. ".....my sister Christine," Eva went on, "...of the House of....."

"Christine," interrupted Sebastyen, enraptured. He stood up out of his seat, and kneeled before her. Christine gasped at (presumably) his presumptuousness, as he took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

"Christine," he repeated. "This is the first time I've ever seen you."

This was obvious to everyone, since he had asked to be introduced just two minutes before.

"And to see is to love," said Sebastyen, somewhat unoriginally. "And to hear is to obey. If you, with your eyes of truth, deem me unworthy of your love, send me away. However, if you're not sure— marry me!"

He looked deep into her eyes of purest blue, framed by hair of purest gold, and gave her a slow wink. Christine gasped again.

Queen Eleanor smiled broadly. She might have expected this from Sebastyen. And, though she thought perhaps that the young woman might be better matched with Prince Archibald, she couldn't help thinking that the intellects, at least, of the two young people was going to render them perfect for each other.

Eva stood quietly by her sister's side. She had beamed in happiness and pride as Sebastyen kneeled before Christine and began his proposal. She smiled so widely, in fact, that people less charitably inclined would have called it a grin. It wasn't until she saw Sebastyen's great dark eyes looking up appealingly that a dart of something sharp and hot shot into her heart, and it wasn't until he gave the slow wink that she realized what it was.

_To see is to love._ Oh good heavens. Eva's face took on an expression of shock. Sebastyen, still intent on his beloved's face, didn't see a thing.

"But—" said Christine, at quite a loss. "But—" She turned to Eva for help.

This was, quite naturally, the last thing Eva would have wished for. As a matter of fact, Eva suddenly began silently cursing her fairy godmother, wherever and whoever she was, for not watching out for her, and for allowing her to get into such a position. How _could_ she advise Christine to marry the prince if she, Eva, was herself in love with him? Eva didn't stop, at the moment, to determine if she really did love him or not. She certainly _thought_ she did, and an entire lifetime of happiness was too much to leave up to chance. On the other hand, how could she tell Christine _not_ to agree to marrying the prince, if Christine might very well be in love with him as well? Eva had quite a lot of basically unfounded faith in Sebastyen's ability to charm.

Finally, Eva simply shook her head and whispered into Christine's ear: "I can't help you make this choice. You must do it on your own."

Christine frowned in an agitated manner and looked back at Sebastyen, who was still on his knees, his lips stretched in a tense, expectant smile. "I— I—" she faltered. "I—"

Sebastyen's smile began to waver. Eva, like him, was finding the suspense unbearable, and poked her sister in the back.

"I— I can't!" cried Christine. "I'm terribly sorry, Your Highness, I simply can't marry you!"

Queen Eleanor breathed in deeply and let out her breath in something suspiciously like a sigh. Sebastyen allowed his face to collapse as though he was crestfallen. Then he realized he _was_ crestfallen. The beautiful creature had refused him! And once again, the thought that she would have consented to anything Arch had asked her crossed his mind.

He stood up, swaying a little on his feet, and made his voice sound cheerful. "Ah, well, some other time then. Dance with me instead?"

And he offered her his hand.

Christine hesitated for a moment, then shook her head, apologizing again. Sebastyen's smile disappeared once more as Christine turned and ran— or at any rate, walked very quickly, back to her mother, who had observed the whole thing.

"Well—" began Sebastyen, turning back to his parents.

"Dance with somebody else," ordered the king, determined, now that Sebastyen had come so close to matrimony, to press what advantage he might have and so see him married off to somebody before the evening was out. King Henry had a number of small, odd goals of this sort, which he never quite saw to the end.

Sebastyen turned around, and, quite naturally, the first face he saw was that of Eva.


	6. A Cardinal and a Count

Re: reviews... thanks katter! :)

I completely agree, Lady ot Rings, no Carl equals earthwide destruction.

Spaztic Arwen... Young Frankenstein is one of my favourite movies ever! I love Gene Wilder and Mel Brooks!

Carnicirthial, yeah it was an honest mistake! Well maybe not exactly honest.... yeah, honest. To say the least, I was pleased when people thought it was just part of the story. I mean, how random can you get? Putting a chapter from an entirely different book in the middle of an almost-plotline? Maybe I should just take credit for it, though I think if I really was that random, I'd have serious difficulty making it through everyday life.

Nikoru Sanzo, thanks for the review— Carl's not really getting married. OR IS HE? (Dun dun duuunnnnn....)

MariAmber, my autograph is on tour right now with Paul McCartney, so it'll have to get back to you on that... (I've been practicing! Spelling my own name! Pretty bad, huh?)

And finally, RogueCajun— YES that line is from the Young Ones! I love the Young Ones! I love Rik Mayall! He's the only man I've ever fallen in love at first sight with... quite seriously! And when I say "seriously" I mean other people's seriously, not just my seriously, so, y'know, you can tell that I'm seriously— serious. I rip off lines from Rik probably more than anyone else, except perhaps Douglas Adams. (Oh, and where's Van Helsing and the TCS? I've been waiting for it!)

"Make—It—Stop" included as tribute to the person who runs my most favouritest (not really a word) website, Dessicated Coconut. Hilarious! Really! See, I'm using exclamation marks as proof!

Chapter Seven: A Cardinal and a Count

Dracula stared at Van Helsing as though he were an idiot— which, lets face it, wasn't far wrong.

"Are you serious?" he said.

"Serious about what?" asked the monster hunter dimly.

"I mean, are you joking?"

"Why, are you laughing?"

"After all this time, after all ve've been through together, I come back after being killed and the first thing out of our mouth is, Vhy the accent?"

"You mean, _why _the accent."

Dracula stared at him. "Shut up!" he said, sounding briefly like John Cleese. "I've come for help, not an elocution lesson."

"Hey, you sound just like John Cleese," said Carl, pointing at him.

"Listen, monk—" said the Count, turning on him threateningly.

At this strategically ambiguous moment, a shriek rang out.

"Dracula!"

They all turned to see Cardinal Jinette, doing some serious hyperventilating. "Dracula_aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa_aaaaaaaaah! Dddddddddddddd-rrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaa-culaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa_aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa_aa!_ Aaaaaaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaa! Auuuugh_!!!"

At this point Van Helsing gave his superior a hefty slap across the face, silencing him and knocking his silly hat of in the process, which was an unexpected bonus. The assembled monks tried not to laugh at Jinette's patently ridiculous comb-over.

"It's a little late for freaking out," said Van Helsing sternly. "He's been here for five minutes already."

"Ah— er— yes," gulped the Cardinal, wiping sweat off his brow. "Er— quite. Well, er—" He clasped damp palms together and gave a sickly grin. "Can I offer you something to drink, Count Dracula, p'raps some wine?"

"Thank you," said Dracula formally, "but I do not drink— vine."

There was a pause while a million readers rolled their eyes. The ghost of the Writer's Avatar shimmered briefly in the air and gave a sheepish grin.

"Sorry," she said, "I've always wanted to do that."

"Well now you have," said the readers, "so will you please refrain from doing it again?"

"I do not drink— vine," said Dracula immediately.

"Hey!" said the readers.

"It was him!" said the Writer, pointing at him. "Not me! Drac did it on his own! Sorry—"

"Go away," said the readers.

"Geez, I _said _I was sorry," said the Writer, flickering out of existence again.

"Well, now that we've gotten past all that," said Carl, "why are you here, Dracula?"

"_He_ knows," said the Count, pointing at the Cardinal. Jinette leapt guiltily.

"How does he know?"

"Why would he know?" Van Helsing asked.

"I— I didn't want to tell you this," said Jinette, "but— Dracula and I— we— we have a— c— "

"A canoe?" said Van Helsing sharply.

"No!"

"A cat," said Carl.

"NO!"

"A canary."

"A cook-out."

"A carriage."

"A caftan."

"A cork."

"A—" said Van Helsing blankly, having run out of words. "A— aaaaaaaaaaa— something else beginning with C."

"A connection!" howled Jinette. "We have a connection!"

He took a minute to comprehend the quizzical look on Van Helsing's face and the disgusted one on Carl's.

"A mental connection," he added quickly. The disgusted look relaxed— the quizzical one stayed. "I— can tell what he's thinking, and he can order me about."

"Why?" said Carl sharply.

"I'd rather not go into that."

"So— what is he thinking now?"

Jinette stared at Dracula, who stared back with intense eyes.

**MINDMELD MINDMELD MINDMELD**

"Oh no," said Jinette helplessly.

"What? What is it? What— _what are you doing_?"

Jinette began to bob his head to some unheard rhythm— his left hip began to move rather peculiarly, which is more of a feat than it sounds as he'd had it replaced with a metal one years ago. Soon, before Carl and Van Helsing's horrified eyes, he was doing some odd set of motions that involved complicated gyrations of his entire body.

"Good God," said Van Helsing, hiding his eyes.

"Its—" said Carl, staring in morbid fascination. "Its— it can't be—"

"It is," said Dracula evilly. "The— Macarena."

The orchestra and choir that had been hired to provide ambient music spiked dramatically at this point. This scared the monks, who began to panic rashly.

"Don't freak!" yelled the Smallish Fattish Monk. "Just— just follow Jinette! Do what the Cardinal does!"

"This is bad," said Van Helsing.

"Very bad," agreed Carl, staring in wide-eyed fascination at the Macarena-ing Vatican.

Van Helsing turned to Dracula. "Make them stop. Tell me what you want me to do, I'll do anything, but— make them stop!"

"Vhy?" said Dracula. "This is a Kodak moment if ever I haff seen vun."

"Quit speaking out of century and make— it— stop!"

The words rang out in the still air.


	7. Dracula's Revenge

Chapter Eight: Dracula's Revenge

Arm out, arm out

Palm up, palm up

Elbow, elbow

Head, head

Waist, waist

Butt, butt

Hip gyrate

"Aaaaiii, macarena!" shouted a hundred monks. "Sssshout!"

Dracula was thoroughly enjoying the discomfiture of all present.

"You need to go with me—"

"Whatever!"

"—to the year 2005—"

"Anything, anything!"

"—and find my brides—" continued Dracula, unperturbed by Van Helsing's anguished yells.

"FINE!"

"And persuade them to come back."

"OKAY!"

"Now who's speaking out of century," asked Dracula with satisfaction.

"I promise! I promise! Just make them stop!"

"It is already done," said Dracula, and indeed, the monks had stopped dancing and started looking embarrassed. In clumsy efforts to assuage the awkward moment, a few of them started complimenting each other on their rhythm. "Shut up," said most of the monks, and began to disperse, red-faced.

"Now, how do you expect to get to the year 2005 anyway?"

"That's vhere the monk comes in," said the Count, turning to Carl.

"Well," Carl admitted, "I was working on a time machine that could transport objects into the future—"

"Oh, really?" said Van Helsing interestedly, as though he'd entirely forgotten the conversation they'd just had. "That'll come in handy."

"Right," said Carl, dragging his gaze with difficulty from Van Helsing's stupidly ingenious expression. "But, um, it hasn't been tested on humans yet."

"Try it on him," advised Dracula, pointing at the monster hunter. "That vay, if things don't vork out, no loss."

"Tempting," admitted Carl. "But then who would do the monster-hunting for the Loyal Order of Corn? Who would teach Father Leopold to put his pants on correctly? Who would run the popcorn machine on movie night? Who would win the Vatican's Annual I'm-Too-Sexy-For-My-Vows Contest?" He paused. "Wait, that's me."

"That'd be my guess," said Dracula.

"No, I know what we'll do," said Carl decisively. "We'll send the Smallish Fattish Monk through. Nobody really likes him anyway."

The Smallish Fattish Monk squeaked indignantly. "But Cardinal Jinette says he loves each one of us unconditionally!"

"Yes," said Carl, "but even he has some limits."

The Smallish Fattish Monk was dragged unceremoniously over to Carl's time machine and dumped into it. Carl locked the door firmly, and said through the window, "Screaming and crying won't help, you know." Then he took another look through the window. "Nor will wetting yourself," he said reprovingly, and moved to the controls.

A few flicks of switches and the Smallish Fattish Monk disappeared from view.

"Aha! Success!" said Dracula.

"Wait, that's my line," said Carl indignantly.

"Sorry."

"Aha! Success!" said Carl. Then— "It's not got the same quality, has it, once you've said it already."

Faramir poked his head in the door. "Did someone mention quality?"

Twelve of the monks threw back their hoods and revealed themselves to be Fazguls in disguise. With disturbingly Fran-Walsh-like shrieks, they raced after the disappearing prince of Ithilien. Carl carried on unperturbed because he was used to the Writer's randomness.

"I'm really sick and tired of people stealing my lines," he said, as was mentioned, unperturbed.

"Well, I'm really sick and tired of Faramir showing up," said Van Helsing. "What is it with the Writer putting him in every fic she writes? I think she's a Fazgul in disguise too. Its almost as bad as her putting _you_ in every fic she writes."

"I'm sick and tired of the Writer," said Carl agreeably.

"Well, I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired."

"Well," said Carl, determined by this point to one-up Van Helsing, "I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired of being sick and tired." He thought about this. "If I could just go back to being sick and tired, everything would be alright."

"Well— success, right?" prompted Dracula.

"Don't be impatient," snapped Carl impatiently. Dracula glared at him and Carl said, "Meep!" before he could stop himself.

"Hey!" said Van Helsing. "I thought that word was reserved for script fics!"

"I know," said Dracula. "I am somevhat confused, I vasn't expecting to hear that."

"Cutting edge, Writer," said Carl to the room at large. "I'm impressed."

"Thanks, Carl," said the disembodied voice of the Writer, floating across the ether.

Briefly, because her mind was wandering, David Wenham wandered, shirtless and with stubble, across the room, followed by a squirrel.

"Well," said Carl, in a misguided attempt to get back on track. "Success!"

"How can you be sure?" asked Van Helsing.

"Well, the Smallish Fattish Monk hasn't shown back up inside out and twitching," said Carl, and shrugged. "That's a minor victory in itself."

Van Helsing nodded and looked serious. "And that's good," he said. "Because its not possible to make mashed potatoes out of Smallish Fattish Monks— is it?"

"So shall we attempt?" said Dracula, spreading his cloak.

"Quit being so dramatic," said Carl dismissively, "and get in the Chamber."

Dracula quit being so dramatic and got in the Chamber. "What do you call this thing, anyvay?" he yelled out the window.

"A Gaseous-Property-Based Time Propulsion Chamber," Carl shouted back. "For short, the Gas Chamber." He waved and smiled. "Happy time travel!"

Dracula disappeared in a flash of light.

"That's funny," muttered Carl, "I didn't push the button yet."


	8. 10 Things I Hate About You

Today I wrote a letter to Neil Gaiman. Go me! Welcome to geekdom, Random!

Oasis' Champagne Supernova is playing in the background. Random enters.

Random: (striking a pose) Ah! To update, I hasten! Because I have got crap-all reviews on the last chapter! Actually that's not true. People seemed to quite like David Wenham's shirtless/stubble/squirrel ensemble. I will be notifying Dwen forthwith, and it is my considered opinion that there will soon be a subclause in his contract: that he work only with squirrels. It is all good.

Frodo: Faramir! You must let me go!

Faramir: (looking up, screaming) SQUIRRELS!

Or:

Van Helsing: Carl, you're a genius!

Carl: A genius with access to unstable squirrels!

Or:

Audrey: Stop stop stop! Stop that insufferable droning, you're gumming up my squirrels! (ew, mental image)

Or:

SamFlynn: Oh,_ squirrels_.

Random: That didn't make sense, I'm sure, to those of you who've never beheld the full glory of SamFlynn saying "Sugar" at least fifteen times in the Crocodile Hunter movie... which reminds me. I must post my Crocodile Hunter song, sung to the tune of the Beatles "Paperback Writer." But perhaps now is not the time. So.... on with the next chapter! Kind of!

* * *

Chapter Nine: Ten Things I Hate About You

Top Ten Things I Hate About Living With Carl

by G. Van Helsing, Monster Hunter

10. Always shows off his intelligence at the drop of a hat: "Hello, everybody, did you hear the latest news about extraterrestrial terratogenic numerical economic genome splicing?"

9. Shorter than me.

8. Always gets the girls. I tell you, its just not right that, out of the two of us, the friar gets the chicks. Vow of chastity, my foot.

7. Always have to light a match after he's been to the lav.

6. Always corrects me about his religious status— "Friar. No, monk. No, cardinal. No, choir boy. No, excommunicated. No, friar."

5. Thinks "Excuse me, have you seen my quantum phallacious?" is an acceptable pick-up line.

4. Ears stick out.

3. Tends to scream at the sight of any dog larger than an hors d'oeuvre (and if I spelt that right it was on accident)

2. Leaves the toilet seat up.

1. Uses big words just to get on my nerves.

* * *

Top Ten Things I Hate About Living With Van Helsing

by Carl Edward Mane Hampton, friar, DDE

10. Constant angst-fest whenever Anna is mentioned. Get over it already, Van Helsing!

9. Taller than I.

8. Is allowed to get cool haircuts, but doesn't and flaunts it in my face, like "Haircut? No biggie. Na-na-na-na-na-naa."

7. Always have to light a match after he's been to the lav.

6 a.Over-the-top heroism . "If I can see it I can save it." Hah. Last week he saved a chicken from the cook, and did he ever look like an idiot when there was no meat course for dinner.

6 b. Over-the-top stupidity. Just after the chicken incident he tried to save a supposed "maiden in distress" from a man in black— turned out it was the reflection in a mirror of him and his girlfriend. Van Helsing very sheepish and apologetic. Girlfriend scarred for life.

5. Constant shooting at squirrels.

4. The werewolf thing never fully wore off— and every full moon, guess who gets to clean up the sheddings? Not to mention the shedding hair all over the sofa, and the constant smell of wet dog.

3. The way he introduces himself— "Van Helsing, Gabriel Van Helsing." Who does he think he is, James Bloody Bond?

2. Thinks "Next time stay close, you're no good to me dead," is an acceptable pick-up line.

1. That insane giggle he does.


	9. Guessing Games

Chapter nine: Guessing Games

We now return to your regularly interrupted program.

"I hope that wasn't a mistake," said Carl, sounding as though he didn't, in all actuality, care.

"How could it be a mistake? We just sent the son of the Devil to the year 2005." Van Helsing grinned. "I say its time to party. And its all thanks to you, friar boy."

"Well— " began Carl modestly, before Jinette came and attempted to smack some sense into them both.

"Ow!"

"What is it, Jinette?"

"I have hurt my hand!"

"What did you hit me for?" shouted Carl. "I just got rid of Dracula, didn't I?"

"You have to follow him," said Jinette darkly. "You must go to the year 2005 and find Dracula and his brides and bring them back.

"Why?" asked Van Helsing. "The year 2005 is a long way off. Let them worry about the vampires for a while."

"That is a good point," said Jinette. "I shall have to go away and think about it." He went away and, presumably, thought about it. Carl and Van Helsing stood around and played guessing games.

"I'm thinking of something small— and red— and starts with an —– "

"Monk," said Carl immediately.

"Oooh, good one. Okay— something a little larger, in brown and gold, starts with an m —– "

"Mullah."

"Fantastique, Carl!" Van Helsing looked surprised at himself. "I meant to say 'fantastic' I don't know why it came out all foofy-sounding. Anyway. Someone tall, dark-haired, extremely interesting looking— "

"You."

"Right again. Okay. Tall, dark-haired, extremely interesting looking,_ not_ me."

"Steve Coogan."

"Ho did you guess that one? Alright, short, hair that goes flippy, and ears that go boing—"

"Me."

"Spec-_tac-_ular!"

"I have thought about it," said Jinette gloomily, coming up behind them. "And I know now the answer to your question."

"Oh really?"

"Yes really."

Van Helsing nodded and gave him a squinty-eyed, calculating look. "And what was the question again?"

"You must go to the year 2005 and bring back Dracula and his brides because— " Jinette cleared his throat. "A, I said so. B, the Pope says so. C, the Writer says so, and— " He thought for a moment, reciting the alphabet song under his breath. "Ah yes, and D, if you don't there is no story. No story, no plot. No plot, no sequel. Also, the alternatives are less than thrilling."

"The alternatives being— " Van Helsing prompted.

"The Writer gives up and turns you back over to Stephen Sommers."

Van Helsing nodded and cleared his throat. "Those all sound like good reasons to me. Carl?"

"What was C again?" asked the friar sharply.

"Beam me up, Carl."

"What?" asked Carl blankly.

"Send me forward."

"Eh?"

"Through the gas chamber," said Van Helsing patiently, "or I'll whack you."

"Whatck?"

"Whack you so hard you won't know Eve from Adam."

"Who?"

"Carl, why is it both you and I are suddenly saying a lot of words that begin with W?"

"Speech impedimentia backlash against Dracula," said Carl immediately. Van Helsing winced.

"Carl, I _have_ asked you not to use long words when I'm around."

"Get in the chamber, Van Helsing, and say goodbye to— " Carl paused. "To whatever year this is."

"Are you feeling alright, Carl?"

"Yes, fine, its just the Writer is drawing a blank. Righto, all set?"

"Yeaaaauuuuuugghhghgh!" screamed Van Helsing, disappearing in a flash of light and sparks. Carl looked around at the busy monks and smiled. Soon he would be in a new century, where men were real men and women were real women and small furry blue creatures from Alpha Centuri were real small furry blue creatures from Alpha Centuri.

Carl climbed into the gas chamber and wished that the Writer would stop stealing lines from The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

He seated himself, strapped in everything that was supposed to be strapped in, and found himself staring across the room at the controls, which suddenly looked very far away.

He mumbled curses to himself and fumbled at the safety belts.

Thus, after several minutes of anger and irritation, the remote control was born.

Carl called it "The Thingie."

Not exactly a whiz with names, our Carl, but extremely accurate.


	10. A Whole New World

I now have several stories started on fictionpress, my penname is foxfirelightswitch.... just letting you know. If you were really bored or something, they'd be good reading, see? This is like a public service announcement or something.

Chapter Eleven: A Whole New World (like the Disney Song)

"Carl Carl Carl Carl Carl!"

"Whaa?"

"Wake— up!"

"Stop hitting me!"

"Then wake up!"

"I said_ stop_ hitting me!"

"I said wake up!"

"Stop hitting me and I will wake up!"

"Wake up and I'll stop hitting you!"

"We appear to be at a bit of an impasse," said Carl, eyes still closed, holding a finger up. "Where are we?"

"The more appropriate question would be _when_ are we," corrected the voice of Van Helsing.

"Alright then, pedant, when are we?"

"Thursday, I think."

Carl groaned and forced his eyes open. "We appear to be in a dark alley, sitting on cold stone of some sort. What makes you think this is Thursday?"

"It must be Thursday," said Van Helsing. "I never could get the hang of Thursdays."

Carl groaned again and pounded the ground with his fist. "Wait till I get my hands on that Writer! I told her to stop stealing lines from Hitch Hiker's Guide."

"I'm guessing," said Van Helsing, "that she doesn't want to."

Carl stood up and began to walk towards the light, hoping it was in fact an alley and not the proverbial tunnel-with-a-light-at-the-end. In fact, just in case it was the proverbial tunnel— shouldn't he be walking the other way? Just to make sure. He hesitated, and Van Helsing, who'd been following closely, ran into him, knocking him forward into the street.

Carl picked himself up, glaring at Van helsing, who was ignoring him and staring at the world around them.

"Where are we?" he asked, amazed.

As if in answer to his question— in fact, it was in answer to his question, a group of letters appeared in midair. They said, in fancy script, **LONDON, 2005**.

Carl and Van Helsing looked at each other. "Did you see that?" they asked in unison.

"Did we make it?" Carl asked, dazed.

"I can't believe your invention worked!" said Van Helsing.

"What— _why_ can't you?" snapped Carl irately. "My inventions _always_ work. That's why I'm the Vatican's official inventor."

"Nooo, you're the Vatican's official inventor because you blow things up at least once a week and the monks, frankly, could do with the entertainment."

"Well, you're the Vatican's monster hunter because you threatened to blackmail Jinette if he didn't give you a good job. What of it?"

"Never mind, Carl."

"Don't you tell me to never mind, you tall, bloody-minded, glorified murderer!"

"Don't call me a tall, bloody-minded, glorified murderer, you short, flippy-haired, glorified comic-relief person!"

"I begin to suspect," said Carl frostily, in what was clearly meant to be an insult, "that in a former life you were an accountant."

"Stop arguing and lets just find Dracula, okay?"

"Dracula?" shrieked Carl. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh— oh, wait. Okay."

Van Helsing looked at him quizzically. "You okay, Carl?"

"Fine, why?" said Carl brightly. "Lets go."

They began to walk down the street, taking in the scenery. Tall buildings surrounded them, and hundreds of people walked by, into, along with and, in some cases, on them.

Carl stiffened suddenly. "Van Helsing," he whispered frantically. "Look at that girl. She's wearing— trousers!"

"Yes, I noticed."

Carl beamed. "The wonders of the modern world," he proclaimed. "Ooh, look at _that_ one! She's wearing _short_ trousers!"

Van Helsing looked. Smiles appeared on the faces of both men.

"I _like_ this century!"

"Carl—"

_"Look at that one!"_

"Carl, wipe that disgustingly lecherous smirk off your face."

"Van Helsing Van Helsing Van Helsing!"

"And quit bouncing up and down, you're embarrassing me."

"But—"

"Come on, we're looking for Dracula."

"Oh, all right." Carl gave up and followed meekly behind Van Helsing, staring at the pavement. Why bother looking, he reasoned, if—

He walked past Van Helsing, who had stopped completely still.

"Van Helsing? Van Helsing— what is it?"

Carl tried to figure out what his taller companion was looking at.

"It's her," said Van Helsing hollowly.

"Who?"

"Anna."

"Anna?"

"Anna."

"Anna!"

"Anna."

"Van Helsing, Anna is dead. You should know that, you killed her yourself. Sorry, was that inconsiderate of me?"

"Anna."

"Van Helsing—"

"Anna."

"Shut up! Stop saying Anna!"

"Anna."

Carl reached up and clapped a hand over Van Helsing's mouth. "When I let go, simply be quiet," he said. "Alright?"

"Rmmph," said Van Helsing muffledly. Carl let go. "Anna. Anna. Anna."

"It is not Anna." Carl finally figured out who Van Helsing was looking at. "It doesn't even look like Anna! Okay, maybe it does. But not really. And it can't be Anna, as, as I said, she's dead."

Van Helsing turned to him, very excitedly. "Carl, if I were to say to you three days ago that in three days time we'd be in the future, what would you have said?"

"Well— wait, three days from now or three days from then?"

"Carl."

"I probably would have said, Do you think we should pack a lunch?"

Van Helsing made a noise of dismissal that came from his nose and sounded like _Aaaarghunk!_ He began to walk off. Carl stared after him.

By the time he began to try and follow, Van Helsing had been swallowed up by the crowd.


	11. Transcending Reality

Been a while, has it? Thanks for being so patient (by "patient" I of course mean "not sending me threatening letters" which I didn't really expect anyone to do, but regardless its nice that I didn't find any waiting for me when I checked my e-mail) I'm back in this one... a bit, anyway.... I hesitate to describe myself for fear of being accused of Mary-Sue-ing myself, but the honest-to-God truth is I am four foot eight, a hundred pounds, have blond-streaked brown hair to my knees, dark hazel eyes, and am commonly described as "cute." (also left-handed, what I deem my most important characteristic) Go figure. Carl and me, we fit. We're both short and marginally blond. Go now and weep. No, seriously.... :) I kind of wish I was normal height but I know its not that big a deal.

Chapter Twelve: Transcending Reality

The Writer scuttled along a back street in London, trying not to trip over unfamiliar cobblestones. She was supremely unsure about putting herself in a fic again, though nobody had complained about her presence in the first one— she wasn't entirely sure on the Mary-Sue issue, but didn't think that her physical appearance, name, abilities, habits, or intelligence would push the limits too much.

Besides which, she needed a vacation.

Still—

She looked up and saw her readers staring back at her. She gave them a desultory wave.

Now, if she'd timed everything correctly, Carl should be just around the next corner—

A collision occurred.

"Perfect!" said the Writer from where she'd sprawled on the ground.

"What?" asked Carl, looking down at her. She scrambled to her feet.

"I timed it just right," she explained. "The whole thing was done for comic effect, and for once I did it right! Although—" she frowned. "I don't hear anyone laughing.

Carl stared at her in much the same way he'd stare at a crazy woman. "Have a nice day," he said, and hurried off.

"Wait!" said the Writer, hobbling after him. "Don't you know who I am?"

"No," said Carl, in a tone that indicated that he didn't wish to, either.

"I'm the Writer! Or the Writer's Avatar, anyway. I'm writing this fic."

Carl stopped and stared at her again. "_You_ are?"

"Yeah."

"Then why," he demanded irately, " are you referring to yourself in third person?"

"Novel for script," she said. "Usually I use script fic— this time I'm making it hard on myself."

"Isn't that terribly egotistical of you?"

"Well, it is rather. I had thought of calling this chapter **_ME!_**" She watched him. "Look, if you don't want my help, I can just leave—"

"Wait!" said the Carl as the Writer turned to go. "Can you help me find Van Helsing? He's wandered off—"

"Ah, yes," said the Writer without hesitation. "He's located Kate Beckinsale."

"Who?"

"The actress who played Anna."

"What?"

"In the movie."

"What?"

"Look, Carl, if I try to explain any further you'll wind up convinced that you don't actually exist. If you really must know, read 'Portal Trip: Diary of Carl' on the fanfiction website. But lets just skip all that and try to stop Van Helsing from stalking Kate Beckinsale before he makes a nuisance of himself and gets arrested."

"Alright," said Carl.

The Writer smiled at him and patted his shoulder. "Good man."

They began to trudge through the streets, the Writer admiring everything as she'd never been to England, and Carl admiring everything as he'd never been to the year 2005.

"So what major differences are there between what you see now and what you see in— whatever year you're from?"

"Well," began Carl, "to start with, the buildings are taller, the people are uglier— "

"Uglier?"

"Yes. Though their teeth appear to be much better kept, and the general smell of things is much improved."

"Ah," said the Writer. "I'll just let you talk and I won't ask any more questions okay?"

"Alright," said Carl agreeably. "The fashions differ widely— I don't believe I've seen a single corset yet—"

"How would you know?"

"Trust me," said Carl fervently. "I would know."

:"Oh, right, I was forgetting the London assignment. Carry on."

"And there sem to be large metal boxes whizzing around and running over people."

"Cars, Carl. Everything'll be alright as long as you don't assume they'll stop for you."

"Right. But the biggest difference appears to be that there's a sign that says 'Starbucks' on every corner. Why is that? Is it some new kind of government?"

The Writer stopped walking and an evil smile crossed her face. "More like a slave operation— I'll have to take you in there— but no, lets find Van Helsing first. I'm getting a little worried, he should be around here someplace—"

Behind them came the scream of rakes and screech of tires.

"Oh no," said the Writer, very quietly.

"What is it?"

"Turn around. Do it slowly, slowly, Carl."

"Why?" the friar hissed, now seriously worried.

"Because its funnier that way. Come on, work with me here!"

They turned very, very slowly.

As she feared, Gabriel Van Helsing was threatening a taxi with his crossbow. He'd thus far caused a six-car pileup and it looked like he was going for the record.

"You are servants of evil!" he shouted to the street in general. "I will destroy you!"

"Fantastic," said the Writer. "Go get him, Carl."

"What? Why me?"

"Because he knows you! What's he going to think if a nineteen-year-old girl suddenly tackles him around the waist?"

"Well," said Carl after some reflection, "it might divert his attention from Anna."

"It wasn't Anna and go get him!"

"Really I wouldn't worry about it, it happens all the time."

"Preferably before he gets arrested! _Now,_ Carl!"

Carl swore under his breath and, because Van Helsing was currently focused on giving a Honda his one-eyebrow-raised look, had to berate himself, "Carl, you're a monk, you're not supposed to swear!" and then say, "I'm not a monk, I'm just a friar! I can swear all I want— bugger bloody salt-peter!" He used a deep voice for Van Helsing's line and his own for his own and by the time he was done the Writer was having a conniption fit.

"Why are you talking to yourself?" she gasped in between snerks.

"You're the Writer, you ought to know," said Carl grumpily, then turned and ran for Van Helsing. Narrowly avoiding being hit by a car himself, he finally captured the irate monster hunter by the arm. Exerting the full force of his strength, he tugged.

Van Helsing didn't budge.

"Van Helsing!"

"Carl! What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get you out of harm's way, as usual. Come on."

"Carl, you don't understand. My job— what I get paid for— is killing evil. I can sense evil. These things— Van Helsing stabbed a gloved finger at a late-model Subaru. "These things are _evil_."

"Right," said Carl after a slight pause. "Come on, Van Helsing." He began to drag Van Helsing out of the middle of the street. It was a slow process.

"But I must destroy the evil ones!" said Van Helsing, dragging his feet. Carl pulled harder. "I must annihilate the wicked! Destroy the demons! Kill, kill, kill!"

"Bloodlust," muttered Carl to himself. "What a moment for it to strike."

"Kill!" shouted Van Helsing, planting his foot on the ground and halting Carl's painstaking progress. "Kill! Kill!"

All seemed dark and Carl was about to despair when two hands joined his on Van Helsing's arm. Carl looked up into the lovely eyes of—

Well. Not the Writer, because that'd make this a Mary-Sue fic, wouldn't it?

— lovely eyes of Jenny, a preternaturally stupid girl who, nevertheless, has lovely eyes. Soft inspirational music seemed to bound joyfully about their ears as they looked at each other, taking each other in. Carl disliked her immediately.

Anyway, she helped him pull Van Helsing back on to the sidewalk. Van Helsing got off a last few crossbow bolts into the crowded street as he went, but no one was fatally injured and so no charges were pressed.

England is, after all, a nice place to be. Some of the onlookers, in fact, thought the whole deal was rather funny, but their names were Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmonson, and so everyone completely ignored them.


	12. Jenny Blinked

Chapter Thirteen: Jenny Blinked

"My name is Carl Hampton," said Carl, by way of introduction. "I am a friar. They call me Carl the Friar."

"My name is Jenny," said Jenny. "I'm a valley girl."

"Yes? And, er, what do you do for a living?"

"I get married every year or so, get divorced after a week, and collect alimony. Are you rich?"

"I'm a friar," said Carl.

Jenny blinked at him. "So?"

"Ever heard of a vow of poverty?"

"Is it anything like a vow of chastity?"

"Um— lets say yes."

"Then it doesn't particularly bother me. How much are you worth? Net," she added quickly, as Carl opened his mouth.

Carl reconsidered, and shrugged. "Allowing for inflation— fifty pence and a bottle of wine?"

"Mm-hmm," said Jenny, calculating.

"You know," said the Writer, "I find this whole conversation rather mercenary. I mean, how much are _you_ worth, Jenny?"

Jenny smirked. "I've always said my face is my fortune."

The Writer nodded and looked her over. "So— three dollars forty-seven? Six? Around there somewhere?"

"Ah!" said Jenny, insultedly, which is apparently not a word. "Eeh! Oh!"

"Problem?"

"You're just jealous because when Carl and I met, inspirational music played."

"Yeah, so what?" sneered the Writer. "Crap, I should have written better lines for myself."

Jenny laughed. "You know, you really should have written better lines for yourself."

"And I should have written_ stupid_ lines for _you_," the Writer muttered furiously.

"Thank you, I'll come up with my _own_ stupid lines."

"Oh. Forgot about that one." The Writer was rewarded by a snort from Van Helsing and a smile from Carl She smiled back and there was about two notes of inspirational music before Jenny shot the orchestra. The Writer got a bit upset.

"Hey, I spent half an hour crafting those guys! You can't just kill them off!"

"Uh, excuse me? I just did."

The Writer muttered, "Valley girl."

"Beg your pardon?"

"You want a piece of me?"

"Sure, what are you, four seven?"

"Four eight, and I'm tougher than I look," growled the Writer, putting up a pair of not-very-convincing fists.

"Jenny's annoying, isn't she?" said Van Helsing to Carl.

"Yes, she is, a bit."

"That's what I thought." Van Helsing pushed Jenny under a passing bus. The three stood and stared at her.

"Well, that'll show her," commented Carl.

"Its okay, she's a fictional character. So you guys are looking for Dracula, yes?"

"How did you know?" gaped Van Helsing.

The Writer rolled her eyes. "I keep telling you, baby, I'm the _Writer_, I orchestrated this whole fic."

"Got a good reaction so far?" inquired Carl.

"Yeah, pretty good. Ninety reviews, I think. There's my readers, over there." She pointed, and the two men looked.

"Is MariAmber there?" asked Carl.

"Probably she is, yeah. I hope, anyway."

"Who's MariAmber?" asked Van Helsing, looking understandably confused.

"One of Carl's fans."

"Carl's fans? _Carl_ has_ fans? _The _monk_ has _fans_?"

"Yes," said the Writer. "Of course he does. Look at those ears. How could you not love those ears?"

Carl blushed, their eyes met, and the piccolo player, who was wounded severely but not entirely dead, stirred and blew a few breathy notes on his instrument. Van Helsing impatiently kicked him.

"Aaaugh!"

"What about me? Don't I have any fans?" demanded Van Helsing.

"Sure."

"Who?"

"Well— uh— their names escape me at the moment—"

"Who?"

"Uh, Lady Sirinial for one."

"Really?"

"And I have RogueCajunOszGrl and Nikoru Sanzo, and Katter, and Carnicirthial, amongst others," said Carl self-importantly.

"I don't believe you," said Van Helsing defiantly. Carl shrugged.

"Doesn't matter. They're a fact. Deal with it."

"I can't deal with it," snapped Van Helsing, beginning to cry. Carl rolled his eyes.

"A little help, Writer?"

"Hmm?" said the Writer distantly.

Carl snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Are you paying attention?"

"Sorry," she said, "I thought I saw Gerard Butler walking across the street— shirtless— followed by a squirrel—"

David Wenham stuck his head out a nearby building and complained, in slightly nasal Australian accent, "Hey, that's your random Dwenham moment!" A crowd of Fazguls came down on hot air balloons and chased him to France, where he met up with Christine Daae in the Opera Populaire and persuaded her to return to the Phantom, where she belonged. Unfortunately along the way he met up with Raoul the Fop and was forced to kill him in a duel. And that is how he became the Hero of Paris. Also the Hero of Time, because he subsequently got stuck in a Legend of Zelda game.

"Can we focus please?" said Carl. "Honestly, anyone would think you weren't hopelessly in love with me."

The Writer returned to reality with a bump, which was quite audible. "Well, even if I am, I can't be with you— makes it a Mary-Sue fic, see. Besides which, aren't you still in love with a certain— Tamerlaine?"

"Ah yes," said Carl, dreamy-eyed. "Tamerlaine. I did love that woman— but she drove me nuts."

"She _what_ your nuts?"

Carl glared at the Writer. "I found that remark to be in incredibly poor taste."

The Writer pointed at Van Helsing, who had just then gotten it and was snorting wildly. "_He_ thought it was funny."

"He thinks_ everything_ is funny," said Carl dismissively. "Allow me to demonstrate. Van Helsing!" Van Helsing snapped to attention. "Um— diarrhea."

"Aaahahahahahahahaha— "

"Cool, let me try," said the Writer with a grin. "Van Helsing! Pancakes!"

"Ahahahahaha— "

"Weasels!" shouted Carl, entering into the spirit of things.

"Aahahahahahaha—"

"Desiccated coconut!"

"Ahahahahaha—"

"Ducks!"

"AHaHaHahAAAAAaaaa—"

"Squirrels!"

"AhaahaAAAAAAAAAA_AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGUH_! AAUGH! AUGH!"

Van Helsing's hysterical laughter turned abruptly to hysterical screams of terror.

"Sorry," said the Writer. "I guess I shouldn't have mentioned the squirrels."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"

"You think?" said Carl.

"No. You?"

"No."

They looked at each other.

"There's a, uh, park across the way," suggested the Writer.

After ten minutes of industrious acorn-baiting, they were chasing Van Helsing across a parking lot, waving a seriously panicky squirrel in a cage."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAA A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A AA A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A A—"

Meanwhile, Dracula was having adventures of his own— we will get into those in the next chapter.

Or—

— _will_ we?

**Author's note: Mwahahahahahah!**


	13. Author's Note In A Totally Readable Way ...

MUST...DO...THIS....

CAN'T....RESIST.....

I'll probably take this back off when I have the next chapter ready to update (with Dracula, yay! A bit!) But I am extremely compelled to ask you all, because of a review which says:

"Writing a story where the "writer" is entered in as a charcter (sic) is neither funny, nor original. You're ruining this amazing story by entering yourself in...not because of you personally, but because entering the "writer" in is just stupid and BORING."

The person (anonymous of course) also said they like the story, so it wasn't a flame or anything, but I wanted to ask you guys if I, seriously, am getting on your nerves. Cause if I am I will write myself out. What do you think? We'll take a vote.

(Bites fingernails nervously)

Oh, while I'm at it, Spaztic Arwen, Tamerlaine is Carl's one and only true love... (snerk) She's from "Big Bang Theory", a VH fic I finished a few weeks ago, which is more serious and took a lot more time and effort. I stuck her in here for a mention because a lot of the people who review here have read "BBT" and know her. Just so you know.... and eris, I did a total mind-blank on people's names. If I had actually checked on the Net before writing that chapter, you all would have been there. Sorry about that.... next time. Trust me.

Anyway vote, let me know, and HUZZAH for making me achieve one of my goals: to get over a hundred reviews. You're all bloody awesome.

Cheers, SLATFATF, Australians and the Great Scottish Pout, etc... Random


	14. Harbingers of Doom

Yay, I'm back!Re. the Great Debate, its eleven for, two against (me,that is) but actually I had already decided how I was going to handle it a few hours after theanonymous guy told me to get lost (in an incredibly nice and flattering and non-flaming way, of course).So: behold the next chapter!

And RogueCajun... I LOVE his voice! Not because its great or anything, but because its his. I just don't think Scotsmen are meant to sing opera.

One more quick note, the bleedin' Fanfiction people took down "Lord of the Onion Rings." I don't remember if any of you guys read that one, but... its gone now. (sniff) They also took down the preview to this fic, which I didn't particularly care about, and also my BSS Phantom Of The Opera thing, which I resent quite a bit because it wasn't against the rules. Grrr. But I am in the process of rewriting LOTOR so that should be up soon, also I'm starting some new fics so watch out for those... thanks!

Chapter Fourteen: Harbingers of Doom

It was night time.

Or at least, it was dark.

He though it was night time and relaxed until he felt his skin start to bubble and burn. Then he realized that it was, in fact, daytime, and he merely had his eyes closed.

Panic, for a vampire, involves running around in circles and screaming a lot. After all, the undead are people, too— just not living ones.

He crashed into a few buildings before locating a door. Bursting into the lobby of an air-conditioned building he took ragged, panting breaths, waiting for his skin to heal. A few people gave him odd looks, but he looked sufficiently creepy enough for them to leave him alone.

Gradually he came back to his senses, approached the desk and smiled pleasantly at the clerk.

"Good evening, do you know of anywhere I could perhaps purchase an umbrella?"

The clerk gaped at him.

Dracula repeated his question.

The clerk still gaped at him.

"Umbrella," prompted Dracula.

The clerk continued to gape at him.

Dracula mimed putting up an umbrella.

The gape remained and, if anything, intensified.

Dracula became worried. Clearly he would have trouble imposing his will on people if they were already zombies. He displayed his fangs briefly and the clerk said, like a mindless automaton— which she was—

"I'm sorry, sir, this is the greetings desk For actual assistance please make your inquiries over there—"

She pointed. Dracula looked.

The desk in question sported a line a half-mile long, and one lone gum-chewing, harassed-looking clerk.

Dracula smiled again. "Thank you," he said, and went to do a little will-imposing.

It was not easy.

For one thing, when he approached the desk, the man at the head of the line gave him a slight shove and said, "Push off, mate, I'm first."

Dracula glared at him. The man, totally undaunted, glared back.

Dracula bared his fangs slightly.

The man punched him in the face.

There was a bit of an uproar.

The upshot of everything was that twenty people were taken into police custody, several of them bleeding slightly from the neck. Dracula escaped by dint of hiding behind a potted plant and when the coast was clear, turning into a bat. Desperate, he made for the doors, cannoned into them, and struck his head rather hard. Losing control of his body, he changed back into a human form—

And that was how his cape got caught in the revolving doors.

Tragedy strikes in the moments when you least look for it.

Nearly everyone in the lobby looked up as the screaming vampire went by for the third time; the only one who didn't was deaf.

Finally Dracula managed to rip his cape off his shoulders. Tumbling out of the building, he ran up against the legs of someone who looked down on him with rather dubious eyes.

Dracula looked up and dimly perceived that the person was extremely familiar. More important, however, he was holding an umbrella.

"Rox?" said the man in an Australian accent. "What are you doing here?"

Barely acknowledging to himself the fact that the man did look rather familiar, Dracula leapt to his feet and punched him in the stomach, wresting the umbrella out of his grip. With an undignified cackle he ran off down the street, the umbrella held low over his head to protect his pasty skin from the killing rays of sunshine.

Behind him, people rushed to help Hugh Jackman up. With a slight gasp of pain, he explained that an actor friend of his had just beaten him up and stolen his umbrella, but it was probably just a joke of some sort, so that was alright.

The people privy to this statement had always kind of suspected that Hugh Jackman was rather a nice guy, and were of course quite happy to be right.

Dracula, meanwhile, was still racing down the street, unknowingly headed for exact place where stood Van Helsing, Carl, and the Writer, who was still looking for errant Scotsmen. She'd not had enough coffee that morning and kept insisting that she saw Billy Boyd off in the distance. She was definitely worrying to Carl, though not really to Van Helsing, who couldn't care less.

"Don't I have any _other_ fans?" said Van Helsing.

Carl was fed up— this was at least the eighth time the monster hunter had brought this up. "Want a little cheese with that whine, Van Helsing?" he snapped, rolling his eyes. Van Helsing looked hurt.

"I don't know," said the Writer, gazing off into the distance and looking upset about something. "Oh, wait." She snapped her fingers. "Eris. You have Eris. And— someone said they have pictures of you plastered all over their room, if that makes you feel better. Shoot, who was that? I knew the name a minute ago—"

"Hmm," said Van Helsing thoughtfully.

"Carnicirthial!" said the Writer triumphantly, slapping Carl on the shoulder. Carl ducked.

A half a block away, Dracula tripped and fell— the umbrella sailed out of his hand and rolled on down the street as though it had a life of its own. Gradually it came to a stop in front of our three intrepid Something-Or-Others; Carl examined it with interest, Van Helsing was looking for a mirror, and the Writer looked at it with dull eyes.

"That worries me a bit," she said.

"Why?" asked Carl. "It's just a parasol."

"Yes— and what did we learn from "Pirates of the Caribbean?"

"That Johnny Depp is hot," supplied Van Helsing.

"No, we knew that already."

"Um— that Orlando Bloom is actually a boy, and just looks, sounds, walks, and acts like a female," guessed Carl.

"That, yeah, but—"

"Geoffrey Rush is the coolest villain ever," said Van Helsing.

"Yes, and—" The Writer gestured impatiently.

"Oh! That parasols are harbingers of doom!" said Carl.

The Writer smiled. "Exactly. I should be careful if I were you. Sorry, I don't know why I'm talking like I'm British. I'm, y'know, Californian. Wishful thinking, I guess."

Carl stepped back from the parasol very, very slowly, eyeing it as though it were one of his more dubious inventions, perhaps something he'd conceived while under the influence of the sacrificial wine. "Do you think it will explode?" he said.

"I should think it more likely that a band of immortal skeletons come rushing around the corner," said the Writer frankly, and then Dracula came rushing around the corner, half his skin burnt off and hanging off his bones.

Perfect timing, as usual.

The Writer and Carl screamed in a very nearly identical manner and clutched at each other. Van Helsing screamed as well, and began to run at the creature with a silver stake held high. It was pure reflex.

Suddenly the Writer realized who the steaming skeleton actually was, and she ran after him, hollering for him to wait. She was a fast runner.

What happened next was either a terrible accident or a source of great merriment, depending both on how much you like the Writer and how sadistic you are. Either way it was entertainment, and therefore no bad thing.

She tripped. Van Helsing tripped. Dracula raced indoors just in time. The Writer and the monster hunter went down together in a tangled heap of bodies— she probably would have enjoyed it more if she hadn't been stabbed through the heart at that time.

Van Helsing backed away from her stilled body quickly and stood by Carl, who's blue eyes were wide with— not quite horror, but definitely not happiness. Together they spoke the one word that is, no doubt, even now on lips of readers everywhere—

"Oops."


	15. After The Death

I think this is my favourite chapter... testimony to my ability to annoy people even when my avatar has been brutally murdered. Yay, go me. Ah, so you people miss me? Aw, that's so sweet...

**Whitney**: definitely writer's prerogative, I think. I know lots of people are Bloomies, my little sister included, but I just cannot stand him... of course, lots of people can't stand the people I love, too (coughGerardButlercough) Glad you weren't offended by it, anyway. You might enjoy my LOTR stories, where I make fun of him a lot, if you're willing to keep your sense of humour going...

**Katter**: I die! There ya go! End of the suspense:)

**Nikoru Sanzo**: It said you'd already reviewed because I took off a few chapters. I've ben getting hit so hard lately by FF's rules I daren't violate them at all... so I took off the author's note and also the script chapter I had. It didn't really interfere with the story, so that's alright. Thanks for reviewing anyway!

**svu-chick-katarina**: I can't stand being accused of being cliched, so that's why I killed myself off. I don't think that's ever been done before... just watch, now I'll find a zillion stories just like mine... glad you love the story. Keep reading!

**Terreis**: "bizarre and oddly entertaining." LOL, my all-time favourite epithet! That is going on my gravestone! Thanks!

**eris**: champagne. Definitely champagne.

**Seadragon68:**well, you never cease to be amazed when Random is around (cough) Right, people? _Right_?

**Carnicirthial: **(see reply to Nikoru Sanzo for explanation) Glad to see ya! Did you get my e-mail about your story? You should put up an excerpt on the web so people can go see it.

Once again, I want to thank you all for voting in favour of the Writer. And for the two who didn't: _(bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep) _Have a nice day:)

No, officer, it really_ is_ a free country...

**Chapter Fifteen: After the Death**

_And now, a poem_:

"She's dead," said Carl, mildly aghast,

Staring at the corpse of the female

Who lay on the ground in a curious way

Not looking at all like a whale

"This is terrible," our favourite friar went on

Looking exactly like Babbit

"You really must stop killing young women, VH,

"This is becoming quite a bad habit."

"Don't lose it," said Van Helsing, beginning to sweat

As he began to sip the bitter cup

Quietly leaning on Carl's shoulder for leverage

He braced himself mightily and threw up

"Van Helsing, please don't," said our long-suffering friar

"Its ridiculous and doesn't help in the least,

"Also disgusting, and not only that,

"It's getting all over the deceased."

"_This_ is ridiculous," said Van Helsing loudly

"I can't believe we keep such perfect time!

"I've never spoken in verse my whole life

"Why should I suddenly break out in rhyme?"

"It is indeed odd," agreed Carl

"It is something of a marvel—

"It would seem," Carl said,

"She isn't actually dead,"

and caught his blond hair in a snarl.

"What do you mean?" said Van Helsing

His body suddenly convulsing

"Do you mean she still writes

"Stupid lines for us guys?"

_Now what bloody rhymes with Van Helsing?_

"That's what I think," said Carl firmly.

"And if we're not careful, I fear

"We could be speaking in rhyme our whole lives

"Ah, she's released us from limericks, I hear."

Said Van Helsing next, "Why don't we

"Say something incredibly funny

"Or something quite crude

"Or at least rather rude

"So she'll relinquish the poetry."

"I don't think that would do us service,"

said Carl, a bit nervous.

"Or maybe," Van Helsing went on

"We could just hint 'em—

"Something terribly mean

Or drastically obscene

So then she'd be forced to print 'em."

"I think," said Carl with a look,

"She got that one out of a book."

"I know," said the dark-haired man,

"She should come up with something more original than—"

Quite suddenly he stopped, as he'd run out of words

A severely ticked expression he began to wear

Arrogantly he began to make war on empty space

As though the Writer were in the air

Instead of, which was certainly less sweet,

Lying dead in the gutter, on the ground at his feet

"I find it extremely obnoxious," quoth he,

"This trend that is sweeping the nation,

"This awful habit of attempting to insert as many superfluous syllables in the penultimate line as you possibly can

"It's turning into quite an irritation."

"Good lord," said Carl, mildly peeved

And instantly developing a slight tic

"You'd think you were born in this century

"Since when did you become a poetry critic?"

"Now that," said Van Helsing, beginning to whine,

"Now _that_ was a spectacularly stupid line."

"Oh really?" said Carl, peeved as a bat,

"And pray tell me, sir, what exactly was_ that_?"

"This is stupid," said Van Helsing

With something approaching rational calm

"It's not _us_ we should make war on, its _her_,"

And again he attacked the air without a qualm.

Carl in the meantime scuffed at the sand

And in some embarrassment buried his head in his hands

When out of the building did roar

A man who looked quite insane

He set on the first person he saw (a native Londonian)

And the man of his blood he did drain

At last he set the unfortunate down

And looked around him a bit

Upon seeing Van Helsing his eyebrows were raised

And the first thing he said was, "Twit."

"I beg your pardon," said Van Helsing, offended,

"What was that you just said?"

"I think you heard me," said Dracula,

and called him a moron instead.

It appeared that the mortal enemies were about to fight

(Except that of course Dracula wasn't mortal)

When Carl became quite distracted by something

Pointed at the street and said, "Look, there's a turtle!"

There came from the listeners a collective groan

But even then the Writer's hold was not thrown.

Whilst her poor body lies mangled and bleeding

Her spirit back into reality was receding

"So everything goes,"

She sighed as she rose

And took her farewell of proceedings.


	16. A Karaoke We Go

Replying to reviews:

**Lady ot Rings**: glad you liked, it was my fav. chapter also. Mostly because I like rhyming things, I guess, even though I'm crap at it.

**Moriyina**: Hi! Thanks for reviewing. Van Helsing and the Village People got taken off cuz it was script fic... I have it posted on my website, though, which you can get to at my author's bio page or maybe I can figure out how to post it here... um, the usual beginning, then ranfan (slash) bravehost (dot) net . No "www" part, though... probably be easier to get it from my bio page, hee. Anyway you can find it under "DWRH" at the bottom of the page. And also I'm thinking about re-writing it so it conforms to standards and reposting it, if people think that's at all a good idea. Thanks!

**Mariamber**: Hey, kid how are ya? Haven't seen ya in a while... how's my site going? (Grins and blushes) Still can't believe it... but you have to let me know when its up, and where its up, if it ever indeed gets up... so I can tell everybody to go join...

**Spaztic Arwen**: Yes, it is, innit?

**Eris**: have been thinking about new avatar, but wonder if it would just defeat the purpose. Oh well, if nothing else, the squirrel could be inhabited... and that would be kind of appropriate, too...

**Luthien Anwamane**: thanks! That was my favourite bit too.

**RogueCajun**: LOL have fun convincing granny to let go of THAT. I know I wouldn't give up the chance to sleep with Gerard Butler every night... :) I know, I know, that was truly predictable in the worst sense of the word.

**Terreis**: yes I am. Thanks (takes a bow) Didn't mean to frighten Haldir. Skittish little thing, isn't he?

**Carnicirthial**: they'll be here, don't worry... and I'm having the slightest bit of trouble getting out your story. Don't fret, its our computer, nothing you did. I'll conquer it eventually. (Enlists the legendary Beowulf to come and beat the crap out of Dad's computer with his club.)

Chapter Fifteen: A-Karaoke We Go

"What shall we do?" said Carl. "Bury her?"

Van Helsing looked thoughtful for a moment. "Nah," he said at length. "Lets just leave her in the gutter. According to her, she's just an avatar anyway— whatever that is— so she should kind of— disappear, right?"

The three of them stood and stared at the body of the Writer.

"She does not appear," said Carl, "to be disappearing."

Van Helsing shrugged.

"Perhaps ve should just leave her here," suggested Dracula. "I believe wandering city streets with a corpse in tow leads to a certain amount of unwanted attention."

Van Helsing and Carl stared at him.

"Not that you would know, or anything," said Van Helsing sarcastically.

"Of course I know!" said Dracula. "I've had the personal experience."

There was, not very far away, the wail of a siren.

"Run," suggested Carl, and for once they all agreed on something. They ran up the street, down another street, up an alley, down another alley, turned right, turned right, turned right again, turned right again, turned right again, then Carl said—

"This looks a bit familiar."

"Who's been navigating?" panted Dracula, who wasn't used to running.

"Not me, I thought you were!" said Van Helsing, panting as well. He was used to running but panting showed off his chest.

"You thought I was?" said Dracula, panting harder. "Why?"

"I don't know, I just assumed!" said Van Helsing, trying to keep up with him in the panting department. Determined to outdo each other, their eyes locked in a hateful gaze as their chests rose and fell with ever-more-intense regularity. After about five minutes, Van Helsing passed out. Dracula, who didn't even need to breathe in the first place, laughed.

"Gets him every time," he said gleefully.

"Look," said Carl, "we're just here to get your brides back, so can we get on with it? I suppose," he added, looking at the figure lying prone on the ground, "we should wait for Van Helsing to wake up first."

"Vhy vait?" said Dracula, and kicked him.

Van Helsing groaned.

"Sorry," Dracula apologized, "I vas aiming for your ribs, but I guess I missed. In the, er, vrong direction."

"That's going to leave a mark," opined Carl.

"Not a readily visible one, though," said the Count, "so vhat does it matter?"

"It'll be readily visible to his girlfriend," said Carl.

"But he does not haff one, so vhat, I repeat, does it matter? Come, ve must find my brides. It is a matter of utmost importance."

"Oh, alright," sighed Carl. Bending, he grabbed Van Helsing's arm and started hauling on it, attempting to get the much larger man up on his feet again. Van Helsing, who was awake now, stubbornly refused to help him. Carl pulled hard, leaning all his weight against that of Van Helsing, and when the monster hunter twisted his arm out of Carl's grasp, he fell to the ground heavily.

"That is going to leave a mark as well," said Van Helsing, watching him with eyes narrowed with satisfaction.

Carl groaned.

"Agin," sighed Dracula, "not one that is readily visible."

"Suppose he gets a girlfriend—"

"The monk?" said Dracula in surprise. Carl got rather angry.

"FRONK!" he bellowed.

There was a moment of silence, and then Van Helsing began to laugh.

"Fronk?" he repeated. "Fronk?"

"Friar, I mean," muttered Carl, embarrassed. "I did mean friar, I just got— a bit— mixed up—"

"Hello, I'm Van Helsing," said Van Helsing, still laughing, and pretending to introduce himself to thin air, "and this is my friend Carl, the Comic Relief Fron— fro—" He laughed so hard he couldn't complete the word. "Fron— fron— fr—"

"Oh, shut up, Van Helsing," snapped Carl, clambering to his feet and rubbing at his posterior, which hurt. "Must you be so childish?"

"Fr— fron—" wheezed Van Helsing.

Dracula folded his arms and looked annoyed.

"Are you coming? Ve must go find my brides now."

"Fr— fr—"

Carl stomped his foot. "Get up, Van Helsing! This is not funny! It is merely annoying!"

"Fron—"

"Now!"

"Fronk!" bellowed Van Helsing, finally managing to control his laughter enough to get the word out in its entirety. Carl sighed deeply, watching as Van Helsing stumbled to his feet and leaned against a wall, doubled over with uncontrollable laughter.

"Perhaps we could skip searching for the brides tonight," he suggested, "and take the rest of the day off. I mean, we've already killed one innocent bystander—"

"I vouldn't call the Vriter an innocent bystander," grumbled Dracula.

"Oh, yes, I forgot about her. I was thinking about Jenny. Alright, make that two innocent bystanders— or, at least, one innocent bystander, and one Writer. Really I think we ought to leave off for a few hours, pick up the trail in the morning."

"Fronk!" gasped Van Helsing.

Carl eyed him. "Besides which, I really think he needs to rest."

"Fronk!"

"And I need a beer," said Carl decidedly.

They knew they set out to find a beer. What they didn't know was the complex sequence of events that led to them drunk in a karaoke bar, with Carl on a table singing "MacArthur Park."

"I don't think that I can TAKE it, 'cuz it took so long to BAKE it— and I'll NEVER have the RECipe— agaaaaaain— ooooOOOOO _NOOOOOOOO_—"

Meanwhile, at a nearby table, Dracula was calmly explaining his life story to two or three very interested fangirls.

"So then I was cursed to live for all eternity in this very cold, damp castle, with no view at all and it snowed all the time, so the Devil gave me wings—"

"Oooh," said the fangirls appreciatively.

From across the room came Van Helsing's insane giggle and the occasional outcry of "Fronk!" He'd managed to invent a drinking game based on the word, and there were six or seven Londonians participating with a will.

All seemed to be going splendidly. Carl found a friend, a youngish woman who climbed up on the table next to him and sang "Man of Constant Sorrow," as a duet.

"Perhaps he'll die-_IE_ upon the _TRAIN_!"

When suddenly a cold wind blew through the room, bringing with it the echo of cackling, evil laughter. Dracula's ears perked up a bit, but everyone else seemed to be able to ignore it without much trouble.

Dracula allowed his ears to subside again.

Let them have their fun for tonight, he reasoned.

Tomorrow, they'd get on the trail again.

Carl decided at that moment to have a go at actually singing a Willy Nelson song, which is more than Willy himself has ever done.

"On the ROAD again— I just can't wait to get on the ROAD again—"

Which reminded his new friend of a different, totally other song, which she belted out at the top of her lungs without a thought—

"Back in the saddle again— out where a friend is a friend—"

It is perhaps testimony to how pleasantly out of it everyone in the room was that nobody seemed to notice, and only one very angry man threw a rotten tomato at the figures on the table.


	17. The Really Well Written Chapter

WHOO! 1**42** reviews! You guys are making me feel so good, I think the flu is going away! Yess!

**Nfinity**: Fronk came from a moment of extreme distraction... I was supposed to be paying attention to something, suddenly the word hit me, and I wasn't good for anything for days. Kept bursting into laughter... you know how it is... and I'm glad to review my reviewer's stories, I really should keep up on that more... even though I don't like slash...

**Lady ot Rings**: really? Longest review? I usually write pretty long ones, but then... I need to get out more.

**RogueCajun**: (snerk) What exactly does "basking in its glory" entail in this instance? Spread the Gerry love... the Scottish Pout is now the desktop on my computer. (Hits self on head and quotes Firmin) "Good God, you're all obsessed."

**Eris:** yeah, the snickering potential is quite amazing with that word... I'm absolutely delighted that so many of you commented on that!

**Nikoru Sanzo**: Argh! Why didn't you say something earlier? I could have put that in! Oh well, not your fault, I should have thought of it... (goes off humming "I'm Too Sexy for a Soldier" the Faramir version of the song. Ooh, and "I'm Too Sexy For A Disfigured Musical Genius" the Phantom version... :)

**Carnicirthial**: No, you must NOT stop laughing! Keep on!

Chapter dedication goes to who can tell me where the Pale Poet's name comes from. Last name, that is.

Chapter Seventeen: The Really Well-Written Chapter

Quite to his surprise, Carl awoke the next morning in someone's bed.

He sat up.

He winced at the sound of dozens of fangirls cheering.

He shook his head and wished for coffee.

Then he realized his own situation and began looking around to see if there were any other occupants in the bed.

There was.

At first sight it looked like a lump of fur. On closer consideration it appeared to be the back of Van Helsing's head.

The fangirl's cheering was now joined by the determined yapping of dozens of slash writers.

Carl took a deep breath and continued in his inspection. Also to his surprise, on the far side of Van Helsing was the slumbering form of Dracula.

The slash-writer's howling took on truly alarming proportions. Carl began to feel slightly sick, when suddenly all was saved— there was a deep, rich, and melodious chuckle from the doorway. Carl looked.

The girl from the karaoke bar stood there. She wasn't pretty, but she was neat and well put-together. She had large pale eyes and short pale hair, giving the general impression of— well— paleness. She also had a squirrel sitting on her shoulder.

It was she who had chuckled. "Your face is a sight," she said. "I'm glad I was here to see it."

"What happened?" said Carl, trying not to panic.

"You don't remember?"

"No—"

"Really? Nothing comes to mind?"

"Um— singing?" Carl hazarded.

The woman nodded. "Singing. Yes. Very badly, as I recall. I doubt that the amount of lagers you swallowed assisted in the matter, however. And do you remember nothing further?"

"Um— walking down the street?"

"Yes, and?"

"Um— falling down the street?"

"Exactly. I believe that's where you passed out. Your friend there— not the one with the pony tail, the other one—" She nodded in the general direction of Van Helsing, who gave a great snore at the recognition. "He'd already been knocked out for about half an hour. And so your other friend gave me assistance, and as he said you had nowhere to stay, I brought you all home. I apologize for making you worry," she added, "but I only have the one bed, and as it was big enough for all of you, and you were asleep anyway, I didn't think it'd do any harm."

"Where did you sleep?" asked Carl. The woman laughed.

"You have a real talent for inconsequentials, don't you? I slept in the living room, on the sofa. Don't worry, it is a nice sofa. Very comfortable. Would you like some coffee, or are you anxious to be on your way?"

"Coffee," said Carl, breathing slowly and emerging from under the bedcovers, "would be much appreciated. Goodness, is there a draft in here—"

He stopped.

He looked down.

The woman snickered. "Sorry, but someone had spilled beer all over your robes. There was no way I was letting you get into my bed like that. Look, I left some of my brother's clothes on the nightstand. They ought to treat you up fine." She wiggled her fingers at him cheerfully and left the room. Carl swore lightly and stood, pulling on the trousers, which turned out to be extremely tight, and the shirt, which turned out to be extremely loose. However, they fit comfortably enough, and after running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it, he left the room and went in search of caffeine or some other stimulant.

He found the woman at work in her kitchen, which was painted black. There were more windows than walls, though, so the effect was actually quite charming. There was a gray, silvery quality to the air. She looked up from her perch on a kitchen chair and smiled at him. Her eyes were kind and her clothes were distracting.

"Sorry again," she apologized. "How do the clothes fit?"

"Er, fine," said Carl. He noticed she was scribbling on a piece of paper. "Um— writer, are you?"

"Poet," she corrected.

"Ah. I knew a writer."

"Yes?"

"Yes. She was— " Carl stopped, at a loss for words. He couldn't quite think of a word that really described the now-deceased Writer in a nice way. _Odd_ didn't quite cover it; neither did _strange_, or _weird, _or _unique_, or _unusual_. _Scary_ was more appropriate, but he didn't feel up to discussing it. In the end he simply abandoned the sentence and moved on to something else. "A poet, then?"

"Yes. Tell me what you think of this—" She stood and read from the paper, her eyes closed. "_There was a tree/ the prettiest tree/ you ever did see/ it was tall/ and all the kids would climb it/ one fell off and broke his arm/ the bone emerged/ the rest of the kids were very typical/ and so they laughed._" She opened her blank, pale eyes and scrutinized him. "What do you think?"

"Um—" said Carl. "Why are you wearing a swimming suit?"

"Oh." She looked down at herself. "This isn't a swimming suit, its my underwear. Sorry, I always write in my underwear. Its very calming."

"Not to me," said Carl under his breath.

"It helps me keep a perspective on life in general, and allows me to write things like this." She motioned towards the paper. "This isn't my best work, of course, I've done better. I wrote one about your dark-haired friend as I was putting him to bed. Would you like to hear it?"

Nothing in the world could have prevented Carl from hearing it, and so of course he said he would love it.

She took a deep breath and launched into it, keening the words like a banshee—

"_A man/ a big man/ a big dark man/ a big dark strange man/ a big dark strange handsome man/ who looks exactly like Hugh Jackman/ is asleep in my bed/ thank you, God._"

Carl had just taken a drink of his coffee, and he snorted it out across the table. "Oh, no, sorry, sorry, please, no, I'll clean it up—"

"What's the matter, didn't you like it?"

"Like it?" repeated Carl, "it was _fantastic_!"

She smiled and looked pleased. "Thank you. What's your name, anyway?"

"Carl Edward Mayne Hampton," said Carl readily, and gave an abbreviated bow. "You may call me Carl. I am a friar."

"Actually, he's a fronk," came a voice from the doorway. Van Helsing emerged into the room, dressed in a purple robe that he had evidently taken from the woman's closet. It was quite too small, and the look on the woman's face when she saw him wearing it was something Carl would cherish forever.

Van Helsing, seemingly unaware of the stir he had caused in the female heart near him, strode over to her and offered her his hand. "Gabriel Van Helsing. Please don't call me Gabriel, when people call me Gabriel, it means they're going to be my mortal enemies."

She took his hand, looking dazed. "Lovely to meet you," she murmured and, quite overcome, bent and pressed her lips to his hand. "Lovely," she whispered into his skin. "Lovely, lovely."

Carl coughed violently to hide his laughter. Van Helsing, on the whole, looked pleased rather than not.

"Are you one of my fangirls?" he inquired.

She looked up. "Why, do you have many?"

"Not as many as some," Van Helsing said, glowering in Carl's general direction. Carl shrugged. "Who are you?"

"I rescued you from the owner of the karaoke bar. They were going to throw you out."

"Were they?"

"You were creating a bit of a disturbance."

"Was I?"

"You were."

"Oh."

"My name," said the pale poet, "is Lemon Gently." She watched him closely to observe his reaction to this. She was disappointed. Van Helsing had just come to an entirely new century, and spent a few days with a fronk and a vampire, getting drunk and killing people. There was no way he was going to be derailed simply by a silly name.

"Very nice," said Van Helsing formally. "May I call you Gently?"

"Gently or roughly, makes no difference to me," she said wistfully. Carl did the snorting-out-coffee bit again.

"Oh, sorry, no, don't move, I'll clean it up—"

"Your other friend, the vampire? He tells me you've come to look for his brides."

"Yes, that's true," said Van Helsing gravely, nodding.

Lemon Gently frowned. "I wasn't aware that Mormons were allowed to be vampires."

Van Helsing continued nodding seriously for several moments before he managed to say, "What?"

"I mean," said Lemon, "three brides. Married to one man. Polygamy, you see? As opposed to— well, not monogamy."

"I thought," said Van Helsing, still nodding furiously, "that was some kind of wood—"

Lemon Gently looked at him in some disgust. "Men," she snorted briefly. "They're all the same."

"Not really," disagreed Dracula, entering the room. "Some are quite different." He looked at Van Helsing. "Haff you found my brides yet?"

Van Helsing rubbed his eyes. "Give me a minute, okay? I just woke up, and I've got a bleeder of a headache."

"Allow me," said Lemon Gently. She hopped off her stool and busied herself in the kitchen, while the three men looked at each other and mouthed, "Allow her to what?" She came back a few minutes later with a few small white pills.

Van Helsing eyed them. "I don't believe in medicines," he said. "Carl makes potions to give me, but other than that I'm against it."

"It'll take your head ache away. Come on, take them. You're going to need to be functioning on all your cylinders if we're to find Sir Whatsisnames brides."

"Count," said Dracula. "Actually."

Van Helsing had thrown the aspirin back in his throat and was choking on them, so Carl took it on himself to say, "Listen, Mrs. Gently—"

"Ms," she said quickly. "Gently was my father's name."

"We certainly appreciate all you've done for us, but we cannot allow you to accompany us on a mission that could prove fatal, or, at the very least, incredibly annoying."

"There's no way you can stop me," she said, shrugging. "It's a free country. And besides, Sir Galahad here—"

"Count Dracula," said Dracula underneath his breath, "actually."

"— says you lost your sponsor. Your— um—" She snapped her fingers. "What is the word? Link to the world of today."

"You mean the Writer?" said Carl, at a loss.

"Yeah, that. So you need a new one, am I correct, to help you along and explain things to you?"

"Well, I suppose—"

"I'm your girl." She beamed at them, and Carl felt that he could not refuse. Well, he actually felt that he could, only Lemon Gently was waving a knife at him in a vaguely threatening manner, and he felt that, all in all, he'd rather keep all his body parts intact and attached, thank you very much.

"Right," said Lemon cheerfully. "I suppose we need some sort of vampire bride identifying machine—"

Carl frowned. "Do they make those these days?"

Lemon laughed. "You'd be surprised what we have this century—"


	18. Losing It

Its my fault really, I should have given you more of a clue, and at least most of you all remember Tamerlaine Gentle, which I'm pleased about. I rather liked Tamerlaine, I'd hate to think she was doomed to whatever graveyard lies in wait for used-up OCs.

Ooh, I liked that sentence.

Anyway. Only one person got it right... everybody cheer for the return of **Meta-Chi**! Who knows what's going on in my mind and should probably be afraid, very afraid. Yes, Lemon Gently is actually the only daughter of _Dirk_ Gently, who runs a certain holistic detective agency and travels back in time and talks to the gods and stuff. Yeah. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go to a bookstore and read any of Douglas Adams you can find. I would not be writing, period, if it weren't for him. I mean it. Anyway I only stuck her in there because she is soon to be the voice of a Hitch Hiker's fic, which I figured I had better work on so when the frenzy mounts for the movie, I can jump on the bandwagon and get lots of reviews... I am evil, aren't I?

But— still, you all knew who Tamerlaine Gentle was, pretty much—

and so I would like to, in my totally Random fashion, dedicate this chapter first to **Meta-Chi**, who got it right, and then, with a wink and a smile, to the people who guessed—** RogueCajunOzsgrl, Carnicirthial, Lady ot Rings, Laiqualaurelote**, and** Terreis**, who thought it was from "The Princess Bride." I love you all dearly.

And the rest of you slackers will have to be content with the hair I kept when Dominic Monaghan shaved his beard. Here ya go. :)

A few replies:

**Aradia-hornbeam**: Lovely to see you again! Yes, another Gerry fan! They're really coming out of the woodwork these days, aren't they?

**Aseawen, Spaztic Arwen, eris**: You guys all liked the Hugh Jackman poem! Talk amongst yourselves!

**Knnyphph**: interesting name... glad you appreciate Lemon, she's going to go away now though.

**RogueCajun**: Yes, obsessive behavior indeed, but I think there's a valid excuse—

**MariAmber**: you are welcome to lift pictures off my website if you want some of me for the (ahem) fansite... (starts sniggering and is unable to stop) Sorry, I still can't— quite— grasp the idea.

**Nikoru Sanzo**: Waiting for the next update, kid! Where is it?

**Carnicirthial**: nooooo I don't write in my underwear. We're not exactly a private family and I don't have a lock on my door, also I'm what they call insanely modest (which means I don't even wear swimming suits when there's a chance someone might see me) I just stuck that in there for Carl's benefit. And if I offended you at all I am dreadfully sorry... (edges away nervously) I never meant to hurt anyone... honest...its just my cynical nature...

**Lady ot Rings**: Fronk isn't going anywhere. Van Helsing is far too amused by it, even if nobody else is anymore... :)

**Terreis**: Aw, were you having a bad day? Sorry, but glad I could help a little... can't think of anything funny to put on my reply to you... grr... (goes off and pounds the snot out of her Muse with Beowulf's club)

**Meta-Chi**: can you believe what a dolt I was reviewing to your "Erik is Fired!" as though I'd never heard of you... I really must get my brain checked someday...

And now I am going to sing some of Monty Python's Camelot song—

Between our quests we sequin vests

and impersonate Clark Gable!

We dine well here in Camelot,

We eat ham and jam and spam a lot!

(deep voice)

I have to push the pram a lot!

(sigh) See what I do to keep you people amused?

**Chapter Eighteen: Losing It**

Lemon Gently proved true to her word. Once appropriate dressed, she led them out onto the London streets once more, Van Helsing still swaying slightly from his hangover, Dracula staring at his surroundings with suspicion, and Carl anxiously avoiding the squirrel that seemed to follow them everywhere.

It was a nice day, an unusual thing for England. The sun shone sunnily, small clouds drifted across the sky playfully, the flowers were blooming, and the whole thing was enough to make Dracula highly nervous. Lemon had provided him with an umbrella, a silly-looking thing with ruffles and polka dots and a humourous cow, but this only succeeded in making him irritated.

"Bloody weather," he grumbled.

Lemon laughed. "If you were mortal you'd probably enjoy it. Is it true that vampires only see in black and white?"

"What?" Dracula snapped.

"No, that's dogs, isn't it?" suggested Carl.

"Ah," said Lemon. "My mistake." She shrugged and led them on. Far from engaging one of those demonical vehicles she called 'taxis' as Carl hoped, she made them walk the few blocks to their destination, which proved in time to be a simple, ordinary street-corner.

With one small difference.

The group of teenagers gathered there were enough to scare the pants off Gerard Butler, and fervently several fangirls wished he had been there at the time. Dracula perked up immediately when he saw them.

"Vampires!" he cried. "My own kind! My kin!"

"No," said Lemon. "Goths."

"Goths?"

"Goths."

Dracula frowned. "I don't understand. What's the difference?"

"Goths don't suck your blood— just your sanity."

"Oh?" Dracula still sounded intrigued.

Lemon motioned to one of them, a tall, thin boy with a sullen face and three pounds of eyeshadow. He came towards them, a knife in one hand which he picked his teeth with.

"Guys, meet Marvin the Goth. Marvin the Goth, meet Dracula, Van Helsing, and Carl, respectively."

"Oh, alright," said Marvin the Goth agreeably, extending his knife-less hand for them to shake. "I saw that movie."

"What?" said Carl, Van Helsing, and Dracula.

"Never mind that," said Lemon. "They seem to be a bit touchy if you suggest that they're fictional characters."

"Oh, alright," said Marvin again. He shook their hands.

"Marvin, can you help us? We're looking for three vampires, brides, to be exact, who answer to the description of—" She turned expectantly to Dracula.

"Beautiful. Immortal. Deadly," said Dracula, closing his eyes.

Lemon turned back to Marvin. "Yeah, that. Beautiful, immortal, deadly."

"No," said Dracula peevishly. "Beautiful. Immortal. Deadly. The vords must be correctly spaced out, you see—"

"Ah ha," said Lemon to him, turned back to Marvin and rolled her eyes. "So, got a thought?"

Marvin appeared to think about this seriously for a few moments. "I don't know," he said at last. "What's a thought?"

Lemon sighed. "I mean about the missing brides."

"Oh! Oh, that! Um, yeah, hold on a second." He backed away from them and conferred with his fellow Goths for a few minutes before returning. "Jerry says maybe looking at the Night Club."

"Which nightclub?"

"The Night Club."

Lemon Gently frowned at him. "There's a nightclub called The Night Club?"

"Yeah. On Forty-Second Street."

"Not very imaginative, is it," whispered Carl.

"That's what I was thinking," agreed Dracula.

"Fronk," said Van Helsing, sniggering to himself quietly.

"Forty-second street, huh," repeated Lemon. "Thanks, Marv."

"Anytime, Lemon. Hey, didn't you say you were writing a poem for us?"

"Um— yeah—" She smiled shyly. "Do you want to hear it?"

"Ooh!" said Carl, jumping up and down a bit. "Do the one about Van Helsing again!"

Lemon cleared her throat and spoke. "Night is falling/ memories fade/ life no longer lingers/ my brain is melting/ I have experimented with the playthings of the gods/ and I shall reap the consequences/ for the rest of my living life/ that'll teach me to sniff glue."

About twenty fanfiction dot net administrators roared down on her at that moment and hauled her away, citing violation of the PG rating with this heinous mention of drug use. Lemon turned her head and bawled over her shoulder, "Van Heimlich! I looooooooooove you!"

"Actually, its Van Helsing—" the monster hunter called after half-heartedly.

They watched as she disappeared. This left the three of them standing disconsolately on the sidewalk.

Carl threw his hands in the air. "This is ridiculous!" he snapped. "People keep trying to help us, and either we kill them or they get hauled away by fanfiction administrators!"

"What," said Van Helsing keenly, "is an administrator?"

Carl stared at him. "Van Helsing, you are the reason I sometimes think the entire human species should be done away with."

"What," said Van Helsing keenly, "is a species?"

Carl hit him, but Dracula only laughed and said, "Come, ve must go to this Forty-Second Street and locate my brides."

"What makes you think they'll actually be there?" demanded Carl peevishly.

Dracula smiled. "I have the vord of a Goth. No one dressed entirely in black can be untrustvorthy."

"Hmm," said Carl thoughtfully.

Van Helsing started giggling. Slowly the other two turned to stare at him. He continued giggling, harder and harder, till he was laughing aloud, his shoulders shaking.

"Van Helsing, what—" Carl started.

"FRONK!" howled Van Helsing, and collapsed, not for the first time.

Carl and Dracula stared at each other, then heaved identical sighs of resignation, bent, and picked Van Helsing up by the feet and shoulders. Patiently they began to carry him in the general direction of Forty-Second Street, dropping him heavily several times along the way.


	19. Going Mad

Woo hoo, I'm back! Kind of! And I am really running out of plot-bunnies, so I'm thinking maybe only a few more chapters. Be prepared to say goodbye— aw come on, you know you don't really care anymore— :) Seriously, you've all been loyal readers and I promise to name one of my children after you. Something along the lines of Roguecajuncarnicirthialnfinitylaiquarasephireris— pretty, huh? Yeah, any kid would be pleased to have that for a name—

Chapter Nineteen: Going Mad

They were halfway to the Night Club when Carl noticed that the squirrel was still following them. Startled, he dropped his half of Van Helsing rather heavily.

"Ow," groaned Van Helsing, rubbing his head.

Carl pointed at the squirrel, which was slowly venturing closer and had cocked a beady little eye at him.

"I swear that thing is following us!" he cried.

Dracula rolled his eyes. "Honestly, monk—"

"Fronk!" cried Van Helsing from the pavement.

"You're going mad, I am sure of it."

Carl shook his head and stared fixedly at the squirrel.

"Yeah, Carl," said the squirrel, "what's wrong with you?"

Carl yelped and performed an odd little dance. Dracula stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

"The squirrel!" shrieked Carl, pointing at it. "Its talking to me!"

Dracula heaved a sigh and attempted to pick Van Helsing up.

"I mean it!" said Carl. "Its talking! To me! Can't you hear it?"

"Honestly," said Dracula, heaving a sigh. After about thirty seconds, the squirrel echoed him. Carl shrieked again, but Dracula by that time had managed to get Van Helsing slung over his shoulder and was moving off down the street.

"Its alright, Carl!" said the squirrel.

"No its not!" bellowed Carl.

"Yes it is!"

"No its not!"

"Yes it is!"

"Alright," said Carl, wiping sweat off his brow. "This is simply not happening. I am not here having an argument with a demonic squirrel, I'm just not!"

"This is not an argument," said the squirrel icily. "Its just a series of contradictions."

"its not!" yelled Carl.

"It is! You just contradicted me!"

"No I didn't!"

"Yes you did!"

"No I didn't no I didn't no I didn't!" bawled Carl. The squirrel stared at him.

"Clearly you have become unhinged," it said.

"No I haven't!"

"Also you are in denial."

"No I'm not!"

"Time to give up my secret," said the squirrel with a sigh. "Carl, I didn't want to tell you this, but I'm the Writer. Really, its me, Carl— I snuck back in. I couldn't commandeer another human avatar, so I borrowed the squirrel's body for a bit. Its quite comfortable, actually," it added, "just rather low to the ground."

Carl stared at it for a few minutes. Then he faltered. "Really you're— you're just the Writer?"

"Yes. In disguise, if you will."

Carl teetered a moment longer between indecision, then bent and gathered up the squirrel in his arms. "Oh, I missed you! Things have been absolutely insane since you were killed! I mean— not that they weren't insane before, but— I missed you!" He planted a kiss on the squirrels head.

"Huh," said the squirrel, "if only I were human, I would really have enjoyed that." It sighed. "Oh, the saddest words in any language— if only—" After a moment it became aware that Carl was staring at it, and drew itself up. "Come, we must catch up to Van Helsing and Dracula. I don't trust them not to get into trouble without me there."

"How are you going to help?" Carl inquired, allowing the squirrel to run up onto his shoulder, where it perched, holding onto his ear for balance. "You're just a little furry critter."

"Oh ye of little faith," said the squirrel piously, and pointed down the street. "Onward, dearest friar."

"That's another thing," said Carl conversationally, as they quickly began to catch up to the Van Helsing-laden Dracula. "Van Helsing has discovered a word he likes, and keeps repeating it."

"Ah yes. Fronk. I remember." The squirrel sniggered.

"I wish you would make him stop," said Carl petulantly.

"Why? Its funny."

"Its annoying."

"That's what makes it funny, silly," said the squirrel, tweaking his ear.

"But I'm supposed to be the Comic Relief!"

"And you are. But people laugh almost as much at Van Helsing's stupidity as they do at your— well, whatever it is you'd call it that you do. And as a writer, I cannot turn down a chance for a laugh."

"That must make life hard."

"It does, yes." The squirrel was silent, and then added, upon reflection, "Also, as I am now considerably smaller, picking up the pen is difficult too—"

Van Helsing suddenly woke up. The first thing that met his eyes was the squirrel. The next thing that met his eyes was the ground as he flailed until Dracula dropped him face-first onto the pavement.

He got up, holding his nose and screaming, nasally, "Squirrel! SQUIRREL!"

"Oh dear," said Carl, resignedly.

"You said it," said the squirrel, heaving a sigh.

"SQUIRREL!"

"He certainly does latch on to things, does he not?" remarked Dracula. "Come, we are here."

"Come on," said Carl to the squirrel, and walked towards the door where Dracula stood. The vampire tilted his head to look at the friar.

"Vhy—" he said, "are you speaking to that small flying rodent?"

The squirrel squeaked indignantly.

"Its not a small flying rodent," said Carl. "I mean, yes, it is, but it is also the Writer. Say hello, Writer."

"Bugger off!" screamed the squirrel at Dracula.

Dracula looked mildly amused.

"I am mildly amused," he said. "Have you trained the creature to chatter when spoken to, or is it just good timing?"

"No, it spoke to you. It told you to bugger off."

Dracula laughed. "It did no such thing."

"Yes it did!" Carl frowned. "It did too!"

"Squirrels do not speak English," said Dracula primly.

"This one does! I tell you, it's the Writer."

"Ah, vell, that vould explain things," said Dracula. "Vriters do not speak English, either."

"Writer," said Carl to the squirrel, "say something."

"Something," said the squirrel sourly, folding its little furry arms.

"There!" shouted Carl in triumph. "It said something!"

Dracula shook his head.

"I heard nothing," he said. "Except a little tiny squirrel noise. It vas quite cute, but it vas not a vord."

Carl stared at the squirrel, aghast. The squirrel stared back.

Did it mean that he was the only one who could hear the squirrel speak?

Did it mean—

Was he going mad?

For a brief moment he freaked out over this, but then the realization came to him that he had already acknowledged that he was a fictional character, and so it didn't really matter if he was sane or not. The point was moot.

It was also moot because at that moment Van Helsing finally snapped and shot the squirrel with his crossbow.


	20. The Squirrel Is Dead

**Ebon Oleander Wenham: **Glad to see you finally caught up... plus you put me over two hundred reviews, and therefore you, m'dear, are awesome.

**Nfinity Nite Monaghan**: My dying over and over? All a result of that one anonymous person who said self-insertion is boring. And I turned it into a running joke. A bad one, but a running joke nonetheless. Hah. Eat my dust, anonymous person who didn't like me!

**Spaztic Arwen**: no, I can't. Apparently.

**Aradia-Hornbeam**: I think I knew that about the streets, actually, but I just had to slip "Forty-Two" in there somewhere... and please tell me you know what that means or I shall wonder about your claim to be English...

**Terreis**: Had to put the Argument Clinic in, and I was so glad somebody recognized it! Python is my comedy Mecca!

**Nikoru Sanzo**: I dunno, I just don't like squirrels very much. It was either that or a duck. (thinks about it) Maybe it'll be a duck next time...

**Katter**: leprechauns? okay!

**MindGame**: hey, are you following me? Ah, I love having drastically loyal readers—

**Carnicirthial**: I'm not really suicidal... really... I promise... well, maybe sometimes... but not really... and no I didn't think "Deadly Abandon" was confusing, but then, I am the person who doesn't do plot...

**RogueCajunOzsgrl: **You are great at summing up things:) Carl is crazy and I am a squirrel! Hah, life in a nutshell! or acornshell—

**A/N: THERE IS NO MENTION OF GERARD BUTLER IN THIS CHAPTER!**

**(pause)**

**(Random looks at the capital sentence above)**

**Crap!**

**Chapter Twenty: The Squirrel Is Dead**

Carl stared at the bundle of fur that used to be a squirrel.

"Would you _stop_ doing that, Van Helsing? That makes the second time you've killed the Writer!"

Van Helsing was still gritting his teeth, a wild look in his eye. "That wasn't the bloody Writer, Carl, that was a squirrel! And squirrels are evil!"

"It was the Writer! She was talking to me!"

"Evil!" shouted Van Helsing.

Dracula stared at the little friar and shook a finger at him. "My friend, you must get out more often. You are beginning to hallucinate." He smiled. "It is quite fun, actually, these fantasies about a squirrel—"

"I was _not_ fantasizing!"

Dracula chuckled. "You sound a bit defensive there, holy man."

"I am _not _getting defensive!"

"_Evil_!" shouted Van Helsing again, just to make his point.

"Fronk!" bellowed Carl at him. Van Helsing shrieked out a high-pitched giggle, instantly distracted back onto his favourite topic. Carl rolled his eyes. A leprechaun popped his head out of a nearby gutterway and giggled.

"Look," he said, nudging the squirrel's body out of the walkway, "can't we just go find your brides and get out of here, Dracula? I am getting increasingly incensed with Van Helsing's stupidity, and if it escalates any further I'll take a stake to his heart myself."

"Why so grim?" said Dracula facetiously. "Just because the squirrel is dead, friar—"

"FROOOOOONK!" bellowed Van Helsing.

"—still, life must go on for the rest of us."

"FROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!"

Dracula winced and glared at the giggling monster hunter. "Do you know, that is getting really annoying."

"Took the words out of my mouth," agreed Carl, glaring daggers at Van Helsing, who completely ignored all this, having returned to the world he now inhabited almost exclusively— a world of pink fluffy clouds, endless GameBoys, lemon cream pies, about one half of the French language, and a complete and notable absence of all things squirrelly.

Heaving identical sighs of irritation, Carl and Dracula took Van Helsing by the arms and led him into the night club called Night Club.

There they were accosted by a man in a dress, but Carl didn't think this at all odd, as he himself had been wearing a robe up until that morning. The man in the dress was also wearing makeup that RuPaul would have been ashamed to be seen out in public in, and this was a bit more worrying to the visitors from another century.

"You boys here for the show?"

"Depends," said Carl.

The man blinked at him. "You mean, like the hygiene products or something?"

Carl stared at him with his mouth open, utterly unable to think of anything to reply. Dracula took over—

"Are you a Goth?" he inquired.

"No, I'm a Baptist," said the man.

—and was quickly shot down. Both of the intelligent members of the trio being put out of commission, as it were, Van Helsing now found it a good time to head-butt the transvestite, which he did.

Carl was, in a word, shocked.

"Van Helsing, didn't your mother ever teach you not to hit— well— someone in a dress?"

"If she did," said Van Helsing, "I don't remember it." And he punched the man three times, for good measure. What he hadn't expected was that the man would fight back— the two of them went down in a tangle of limbs and teeth, and a crowd of onlookers gathered, cheering them on.

"Get 'im, Harry!"

"I thought his name was Marleen?"

"Its Marleen onstage, Harry off."

"Harry off? Is that supposed to be some sort of joke?"

"Get 'im, Harry!"

"Get 'im, Marleen!"

"Is that _Hugh Jackman _who just got knocked out?"

Carl hung around and tried to pull the combatants apart— Dracula was wiser and, after giggling to himself quietly for a few moments, he went further on into the dubious establishment.

It was his kind of place.

Other than Harry, and/or Marleen, who was apparently a trick act, and a leprechaun or two, most of the other people looked relatively normal— at least, they did to Dracula, who was, admittedly, probably not the best judge. He swept his eyes from side to side, seeking, searching for his brides—

They were nowhere to be seen, but somewhere deep inside he had expected that.

There was, however, a short, pudgy girl onstage, singing at the top of her voice.

"Aaaaaan' they say even cowgirls get the bluuuuues—"

Dracula paused a moment to take this spectacle in. The girl did not look in the least like a cowgirl. She suddenly switched songs, however, going straight into "No Rain," followed by "When I'm Sixty-Four," and then, in quick succession without pause for breath, "All I Need is the Air That I Breathe," "Everybody Hurts," and the theme song to "Friends," which she didn't seem to know the words to. She was in the midst of a medley from Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's greatest hits— which did not, incidentally, include anything from "Cats"— and was doing her best Michael Crawford impression when the fight that had been escalating in the background suddenly burst into the main room with a vengeance.

In the midst of the tumult of flying fists and artfully tangled bodies, Dracula perceived the small blond figure of Carl the Comic Relief Friar, shamelessly egging people on.

The girl onstage stopped singing.

"I've had a request," she said loudly. "Nonetheless, here is another song."

This got everyone's attention as it was the funniest thing they'd heard all chapter, and the fight quickly came to a stop, and people returned to their chairs. Carl smashed one last man over the head with a beer bottle, and came, panting and with a bloody nose, to Dracula's side.

"I thought you were a man of peace, friar," said the vampire.

"I am a man of vengeance!" spat Carl, fire in his eyes. Dracula edged away from him very slowly. "You don't mess around with the fronk! Oh, curse and bugger it to bloody'ell, now he's got _me_ doing it again!"

"Shut up and vatch the show," Dracula advised.

"Its time for an old favourite," said the singer. "And I'd advise you to sing along. We have guards posted around the perimeter in order to ensure one hundred percent participation by the audience. You think I'm kidding. I'm not. Okay." She shook herself and took a deep breath. "One—two— one two three—"

A few of the band members struck up a plain and simple tune, and she started to sing:

"A baby fell out of a window/ you'd think that its head would be split/ but good luck was with her that morning/ she fell right in a barrel of—"

"SHAVING CREAM!" howled the audience. "Be nice and clean! Shave every day and you'll always look keen!"

"That's right!" shouted the singer, with more enjoyment than the occasion warranted. "Next verse! Grandma was always an odd one/ one day she fell dead of a fit/ and in accord with her wishes/ she was buried in six feet of—"

"SHAVING CREAM! Be nice and clean! Shave every day and you'll always look keen!"

"Right on! One day I was walking our Fido/ he was barking and just wouldn't quit/ so I went over where he was standin'/ and stepped right in a pile of—"

"SHAVING CREAM! Be nice and clean! Shave every day and—"

By this point Carl, Dracula, and Van Helsing had all been observed by the bouncers, and were now captive. Dracula thought about biting them, but on seeing how huge and impossibly dirty they were, decided that even vampires have standards.

The bouncers propelled them forcefully up onstage.

"What's all this?" said the singer. She wore a name-tag that proclaimed her to be named, somewhat confusingly, Thomas.

"They wasn't singing," grunted one of the bouncers.

"Weren't singing, eh?" Thomas squinted at them. "Well, we have ways of making you sing. Hey listen, everybody! We've got some delinquents up here— what do you say we ought to do with 'em?"

Various suggestions were roared back— Carl didn't like the sound of them at all.

He kicked Van Helsing nervously on the ankle.

"Ow!" yelled Van Helsing, and dropped like a stone.

So he kicked Dracula nervously on the ankle, and Dracula kicked him back, harder, and significantly further up.

"Oooooow!" yelped Carl, and bent double.

"Please, er, Thomas," said Dracula, giving the singer his best smile. "Ve haff just come to ascertain the vhereabouts of my brides, whose names I appear to haff forgotten. Ve vere told they vould be singing here— they are vampires, as I am, and vould be easily recognizable by their incredible beauty, their scanty clothing, and their frequent habit of turning into huge flying bat-beasts."

Thomas stared at him.

"You mean the Original Vampire Brides?" she said.

Dracula thought about it for a moment.

"I suppose anything is possible," he said at last.

"Ooooh," said Carl from the ground.

"Frooonk," said Van Helsing, also from the ground, and giggled to himself until one of the bouncer kicked him, whereupon he grabbed the man's leg and sank his teeth into his ankle.

"The OVBs were here last night," said Thomas. "Its Thomas tonight. Me, that is." She shook her head. "You're still going to have to pay a forfeit, sorry."

"You don't look sorry," groaned Carl from the floor. Thomas shrugged.

"They vere here last night?" said Dracula. "Vhere vere they going next? Tell me." He bent close to Thomas' head and widened his eyes, trying to enthrall her. But the singer shook her head.

"Your Vegan mind tricks won't work on me," she said chirpily. "Now get ready to dance."

"Dance?" said Dracula, as Carl and Van Helsing were hauled bodily up from the floor.

Thomas grinned at them as she signaled to the disc jockey. "Dance, yes. Dance."

"Oooooo—" came a voice through the speakers, and then the drums started.

Being as they weren't even from this century, the trio on the stage had never heard of Britney Spears, and they didn't know the dance moves to "Baby One More Time." However, they learned surprisingly quickly to loathe it.


	21. A Rather Abrupt End to Proceedings

**A/N: Okay, guys, this is the last chapter, I'm sorry to say. Thank you all so much for being good little readers! I'm glad you liked it and it made you laugh, at least a little bit. See you around!**

**Chapter Twenty-One: A Rather Abrupt Ending to Proceedings**

Afterwards, they staggered out into the night, leaning on each other. Carl went and threw up in the street.

"The fronk has a hairball!" shouted Dracula, and laughed uproariously. He'd had a bit too much to drink.

"Fronk!"

"Please don't start that," begged Carl, "I will kill you if you do. Its bad enough that the Writer goes on about muffins in her other fics— you'd think she would just learn to leave well enough alone."

"After all this time?" said Dracula, mildly surprised. "I don't think so. No, no, fronk, it does not look likely to happen."

"Fronk!" hooted Van Helsing. Carl got monumentally peeved and sank a punch into Van Helsing's stomach, hurting his hand rather badly. Van Helsing sank to the ground, not for the first time, still giggling a little but also with tears running down his face.

"That's it!" said Carl loudly, trying not to cry. "I'm sick and tired of this whole thing! The Writer drags us on for twenty chapters and then gets sidetracked by something else entirely! Why doesn't she just have the brides show up already! Then she could leave us alone!"

There was a pause. Carl turned his face up and shouted at the sky.

"That was a HINT BLOODY HINT HINT!"

"Honestly, my dear fronk," said Dracula, seating himself on thin air and materializing a pipe to puff on so he could do his Sherlock Holmes impression, "I don't think she's likely to listen to you. She likes Scotsmen now."

"I thought the Phantom was French!" said Carl.

"Yes, well, when has she let something like that stand in her way?"

Carl lowered his face from the heavens and began to sniff to himself. Dracula observed him, his intoxication slowly disappearing.

"Friar, if there is one thing I absolutely hate— I cannot stand to see a grown man cry."

"(sniff)" said Carl.

"So vould you please kindly go around the corner and take your runny nose vith you?"

"Aaargh!" said Carl, and gave him a headbutt. It caught Dracula completely off guard, and there was a crunch as Carl's forehead came in contact with the vampire's nose.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!"

"That hurt!" shouted Carl at him. "Why does your face have to be so bleeding _hard_?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!"

Carl shook his head at him, one hand on his forehead. "All these centuries being dead and you are completely undone by one simple headbutt. That is very sad."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!"

There came a voice from down the street.

"Wait a moment—" it said. "I'd know that scream anywhere!"

"Its Master!"

"It is Master!"

"Run!"

Then there came the sound of high heels clicking along the street at a great pace. Dracula staggered back to his feet and swore.

"Well," said Carl, completely oblivious to the whole conversation that had just passed because he didn't have very good hearing, "you don't need to curse at me."

And then he was confused, because Dracula began to pelt down the street as fast as he could, still staggering slightly from the remains of the beers he'd consumed, but making good time.

He caught up with them, eventually. Nothing can elude a vampire for long, except of course for the correct way to pronounce W's.

He reached out one long arm, caught them, spun them around, and breathed harshly into their faces. They reacted with snarls and moans, but this was more from the beer breath than anything.

"How could you leave me!" he cried to them. "Leave me back in vhatever century it is ve are from, leave me to have to beg for help from Van Helsing, leave me to be head-butted by the monk—"

There was a pause, usually allotted for someone, either Carl or Van Helsing, to correct Carl's religious status. It threw Dracula off when no one said anything, and he blinked at the brides for a moment before finishing, rather lamely, "It vas not fun!"

"Oh, ve're sorry, Master!"

"Very sorry, Master!"

"Is there any vay we can make it up to you?"

Dracula considered this, breathing heavily. "You could, perhaps—"

He leaned forward and whispered into their ears.

"Hey!" screeched Carl from behind him, outraged. "That's my line!"

Things began to be over.

It was a lengthy process which I'm not going to outline for you now because I lack the organizational skills.

Let me just say that, against all expectation, Dracula forgave his brides and consented to let them move back into the castle with him within a month or so.

Van Helsing spent the rest of his life time-traveling, visiting his girlfriends in various centuries, content with the thought that none of them would live long enough to find about the others, and the fact that, as long as he didn't spend too much time with any of them, they wouldn't discern that he was three quarters insane and none too intelligent to boot.

And Carl, our Carl, our dear Carl, lived a long and happy life in endless pursuit of a random squirrel that he saw one sunny afternoon in a park. He said it gave him a sense of purpose.

And really, what more could one hope for?


End file.
